


Little Phantom of My Heart

by stellaglacies



Category: American Idol RPF, X Factor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Missed Chances, Missed Connections, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates, Unresolved Romantic Tension, karmic connections, missing out on each other, saula - Freeform, saula fic, simon and paula
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24883945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellaglacies/pseuds/stellaglacies
Summary: You know everyone is a stranger when it comes to us.
Relationships: Paula Abdul/Simon Cowell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> ** [PLAYLIST FOR THIS FIC](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=45V-ai4htd8&list=PLz48K-jUmTxnvAEcd2UcMc6V6sk1ZrHEL) / _was written to a lot of these and fun to listen to while reading_ **
> 
>   
> Hello everyone. Wow, so, who would've thought I'd be back here, writing for this pairing again. This is a really old story that I used to have up on a hellsite for this RPF pairing that I can't seem to escape from, Simon and Paula. They are so fun to write about, though, so I went back, found the old file, and re-worked a lot of it, as my writing has changed immensely from when I first wrote it. This is an updated version of that work. I changed a few minor things and re-worded a lot of it, but the plot will remain largely the same.
> 
> This work is an alternate universe presentation, exploring the idea that Simon and Paula had an actual romantic relationship during the last season of Idol and then broke up abruptly. It's set right before they had both began doing the X Factor USA, so around 2011 or so. 
> 
> **PLEASE NOTE IMPORTANTLY BEFORE YOU BEGIN:** this story is entirely fiction, inspired by well-known people, yes, but the work is entirely fictional and not meant to depict real people. There were obviously creative liberties taken, and no disrespect is meant to any of the public figures mentioned in the work. I do not know these people personally in any way, shape, or form, and most of it is just fictional character construction based on my interpretation of human psychology and a little bit of my own fun and invention. Simon Cowell and Paula Abdul are really eccentric caricatures whose personas have inspired some great fictional creativity!
> 
> _*also paula once said she and simon love these kind of works, so whatevs no regrets bye*_

He hadn’t received word of her coming in advance, but that was just her way with him. 

Instead, he had been up in his office, sipping a tea that had since grown cold, staring, blankly, at a transcript written up for him a few nights prior by his accountant. Usually he wouldn’t be the one taking care of things like this — hence the complete absence of any focus at all — but he wanted a distraction. 

He also wanted to work up the courage to call Paula and ask her over, at long last. It was the right thing to do. But that courage would come, he supposed, with some more time. Or maybe not; maybe the courage wouldn’t come, but he would do it anyway. There was just always something about Paula, to him, unexpected and curved; it never sat neatly, it never felt predictable. 

He’d been out of the country for so long — he’d gotten so used to her absence, really. Falling back into it so easily, as if it were nothing short of the ordinary — for better or for worse — and truthfully, it _wasn’t_ short of ordinary. Simon had a life without Paula; Paula a life without Simon. Yet somehow their lives seemed always to ebb and flow, until they were back together, eventually — as if laying on an unseen magnetic compass, telling them it had been _days_ and _months_ and _years_ and really no time at all. That was always the way with them. No time at all. Intense contact; months of surging feeling and adoration and irritation, even anger — months of feeling like he’d lost control completely, once again, months of feeling like he hadn’t remembered what life was like without Paula Abdul in it. And then, just as suddenly, they cut contact again, as a project ended, as they traveled to their next jobs, as he left the country. Just like that. 

It wasn’t as though the phone calls they had slowly started having again, and the thought of seeing her, so disgustingly annoying and adorable and kind, so soft and beautiful and irritating, all in one tiny, volatile package, didn’t excite him; it did. But more than anything, he was nervous this time.

Ever since her last show had ended, Simon had done his best to avoid everything about Paula. He knew what was next on their agenda and he wasn’t sure he could do it. He had every intention of withholding his part of the deal, of course; he was a man of his word, but it would be difficult. Paula had even seemed to hint around wanting to continue with their plan herself since everything had happened, but nothing had been clear cut, of course. They positively danced around the subject, he thought, humorously. 

Still, his office door creaked open around mid-afternoon, and one of his assistants entered. Simon glanced up from the paper he hadn’t been reading, his glasses sliding down his nose.

“Paula’s at your back entrance,” she told him, as though the statement was as simple as “you’ve got boxy black hair and a terribly obnoxious smoking habit,” but it really _was_ quite simple. Simon, however, treated it as breathtaking news. He stared in disbelief. 

Paula was early. 

He regained his composure, quickly.

“At this moment?” He asked, his sharp, English tone driving the inflection upwards.

“Yes,” replied his assistant, without pause. “Shall I let her in?” 

But Simon was already getting up, folding the paper neatly and placing it, rejected and abandoned, upon the desk. 

\- - - -

Paula wasn’t waiting when he first spotted her. As Simon emerged onto the landing of the stairs, he saw her below, crossing through his sliding glass doors and in through the middle of his house. She had let herself in; she had her own key, after all. 

Before Simon could do or say anything else, he stopped, taking in the sight of her. From above he could see a light lavender headband, resting atop her brunette curls; her hair was in its natural, curly state; no extensions, no straightening. Her outfit, a short, simple dress, matched the headband; floral patterns subtly interlaced both.

Simon smiled, lightly, and continued down the stairs. 

He met her in the middle of the room. She was already on her way into the living quarters. When she saw him, she smiled, coyly. 

“It’s rude to walk into people’s houses unannounced,” Simon finally offered, before she spoke, failing, miserably, to suppress his smirk.

“You’re not a person,” Paula shot back, her expression unchanging, her stature confident and, he had to admit, quite alluring.

“Oh? And what am I then, a sheep?”

“A gnu,” she said. “A _gah_. Nuu.” She pursed her lips, clicking her tongue obnoxiously against the roof of her mouth for emphasis on the incorrect pronunciation.

Simon, still smirking, stepped forward and placed his hand above her, resting it on the doorway. He looked down at her, half expecting her to stand taller, on her tiptoes, and plant a kiss on his lips, as she always had done. But instead, Paula moved ahead in complement, letting herself into the room. He followed after her, quietly, his smirk falling. 

_Of course not. Times had changed._

They came into the living quarters, bright as day, and Paula sat down upon the perfectly white sofa, directly behind a silver coffee table, adjourned with binders and documents pertaining to the _X Factor USA_. Simon had left these quite untouched since last week—he had been meaning to go through them, honestly, but had found himself short of time. The last time he had laid a finger on them had been, in fact, with Paula, over the phone last Monday.

“Let’s do this,” Paula commanded; she was surprisingly businesslike when she needed to be; her statement had weight. She could pull that side out easily and yet it never ceased to feel strange to him, her duality. He knew she was serious, though, and thus sat, without a word, beside her on the sofa.

It was amazing how he just knew, right then and there, that she was perfect. He hadn’t even _really_ clarified that he remained more than open to working with her. And still she had shown up, ready and serious, and somehow she was, perhaps unrelated though notably so, even sexier than ever before . . . but maybe, Simon reasoned, flippantly, that was just due the fact that he hadn’t seen her for a while. Maybe.

They talked.

\- - - - 

An hour passed. Paula was re-arranging a few large pictures on the table, sliding them around beneath her palms. She was asking simple questions about the seating arrangements; the hands-on mentoring. Simon answered her quietly, paying little attention to the show she was trying to plan, instead sneaking endless glances at her.

She looked so _bloody_ fantastic; her legs were tan, toned, and the dress she was wearing, though simple and flowing toward the bottom, was light and complemented them perfectly. A tiny Lady Madonna. The way her hair fell around her shoulders in its free state made her appear ageless, the little crest below her bottom lip more visible as she spoke. Simon suddenly had the overwhelming urge to kiss it — to kiss her. He pushed this feeling aside; pocketed it. As always, this was Paula, and with her, this feeling was neither new nor avoidable.

“Are you even listening to me?” Paula asked suddenly, her sharp glare pulling him out of his thoughtful wandering.

“Of course,” he replied, too abruptly, too breathily, though he hoped she wouldn’t ask him to repeat what she had just said. 

“Fine. So, about the mentoring aspect, I kind of think we should—“

“You still want to do this with me?” Simon interjected, cutting her short. 

Taken aback, Paula froze, brows furrowed.

“I . . . never . . . didn’t want to,” came her cautious reply.

Simon looked back at her. 

“I just reckoned . . .” his sentence trailed off, unfinished forever. 

It wasn’t worth it. 

It was in the past now.

“You still _want_ me to do it, don’t you?” She asked, almost accusingly, raising both brows. She had set the paper down upon the coffee table now, both hands clenching each opposite elbow in an obvious tension, arms folded, tucked into her lap. She was leaning forward, as if she were in class; as if she had posed a life-or-death thesis proposal, a little soft and sharp torpedo. Simon swallowed. 

_Damn her._

“Well, I don’t know if you’re quite right for the task. I’ve got plenty of candidates harbouring for the spot. Competition is fierce,” he teased, smirking slowly.

Simon’s joke didn’t land well, though. Paula opened her mouth, closed it, and then stood. She started out of the room, but Simon grabbed her wrist gently.

“I’m joking,” he retracted, immediately resenting how much his tone sounded like begging. “You never lost the job, darling. I’m joking.”

Paula stopped; she was contemplating this answer. She turned back to him.

“Good,” came her simple reply. 

But the rush of joy that had suddenly overtaken her at this admission threatened to tear her in two, and she fought a smile, somewhat unsuccessfully, her lip twitching in violent protest. 

“It’s late,” she continued, swallowing the feeling back, fully satisfied in knowing that she had the job. They could continue working when he was more willing to listen. Simon let his hand fall, freeing her wrist, and took this as his cue. He got up off of the couch, following her to the doorway.

“You could stay here,” he offered. “Come get some lunch with me.”

Paula looked at him for a moment.

“Okay,” she said, simply. Once again, Simon had to push away his overwhelming urge to kiss her, and instead led her, simply, to the back exit of the house, where they departed quietly and without any run-ins with photographers.

\- - - - 

They had a light lunch outside, at a secluded Los Angeles restaurant. Paula ran some ideas by him again as she picked at her sandwich; Simon nodded absentmindedly, taking everything in. She was brilliant, really. No other interview he had conducted thus far had even come somewhat close to the general brilliance of what she presented. For better or for worse, he wouldn’t be able to do this without her. He knew it.

He sometimes found his mind wandering during their conversation, but nowhere near as badly as before. He suspected, perhaps, that the change of atmosphere had helped. They had done far too many things on that couch for him to concentrate properly. It wasn’t as though being in a restaurant brought back any of those nice memories. . .

He guessed, maybe, that perhaps the fact she had been the best partner in the bedroom he had ever had, more or less, made him crave her all the more whenever he saw her again. But that was all; that was it. He was with Mezghan now, and Paula was his friend again. That was more than he could have said for them a few months prior. For this, he was happy. 

She seemed pretty happy, too. He met her eyes, his own glistening with contentment.

In fact, Simon noted as they continued with their meeting, Paula was more bubbly now than she had been earlier; more animated — more of the Paula he knew from onscreen, alongside the rest of the world.

As he finished his steak, he took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, leaning back in his chair. Paula eyed him, but didn’t seem to mind very much. When she had been with him, she had always asked him not to smoke in front of her. Her slight nagging had gotten better as the relationship progressed, but Simon noted that this was yet another thing that Mezghan didn’t comment on, and found himself appreciating her a little bit. But he still put the cigarette out sooner than it called for, and popped a mint instead. Paula never liked being kissed after a smoke.

\- - - - 

_“Why do you have to smoke in here? This is my bedroom!”_

__

__

_“Then use it, once and awhile,” Simon had said lazily, in reply, his cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth as he spoke from the cushioned armchair in the corner. Watching her for a moment, he noticed she was purposefully ignoring him; instead, she had turned her attention to the pillows on her untouched bed._

__

__

_Amusing. He could fix that._

__

__

_He got up, walked toward her, and waited. Paula eyed him, but pointedly chose to fluff the pillows._

__

__

_Suddenly, he wrapped his arm around her waist, and gently pushed her down toward the mattress, thumbs against her hips, a large smirk curving his mouth upwards. Paula protested, annoyed._

__

__

_“Hey! You idiot — you can’t do whatever you want in here. Stop it.”_

__

__

_She wriggled free; tried to get up, but Simon prevented her from escaping. She stopped struggling, leering at him. He playfully stuck his lower lip out._

__

__

_“I’m stronger, darling.”_

__

__

_“Yeah, right.” Paula rolled her eyes. “I use this bedroom a lot. Put it out.”_

__

__

_Simon leaned down to kiss her, the scent of perfume mixing with the cigarette smoke in his mouth; a wonderful and alluring taste. She kissed him back._

__

__

_“I can use it too, if you’d like,” Simon mused, lowly._

__

__

_“Shut up and kiss me,” Paula growled in response, too annoyed for any more banter._

__

__

_And he did, her bossy side proving arousing. He kissed her and kissed her; laid her down beneath him as he tasted her lips, her chin, her beautiful scarred neck. He held an arm up and snuffed his cigarette out in the ash tray upon the side table._

__

__

_Oh, the golden age of their relationship. . ._

\- - - - 

“Thanks for the lunch,” Paula’s voice, once again, catapulted him back to reality. She stood and placed her tip on the table. Simon got up as well, putting his jacket back on.

“You’re being agreeable today.”

“Sorry. Next time I’ll trash talk your life choices more,” she quipped, and they both smiled at one another at that.

“--Why don’t you come back to my place, stay for a bit?” Simon offered, more friendly after his glass of wine. 

Paula raised a brow, but her smile didn’t fade. 

He continued, trying more. “Stay the night, even.” 

He liked how well they were getting along. He wanted to keep it going, if only for a little while longer. Paula leaving seemed like a fate worse than death after such fun. 

She closed her eyes, however, and shook her head. 

“Not a good idea, Simon.”

“Oh, come off it. It’d be easier than driving you all the way back to your house.”

“I’m still trying to sell my house. I’m staying at a hotel. It’s only a few blocks away.”

“Ahh,” came his reply. He decided to drop the subject altogether, defeated. No good ever came out of fighting with Paula Abdul.

“I’ve got an appointment with the doctor, anyway,” she finished absentmindedly, closing her purse.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I’m taking my dad.” She pulled her coat on; they were moving toward the door. Simon reached out and held it open for her; she walked through, beneath his arm, wordlessly.

“Do you need me to drive you?” He asked from inside—he decided it would probably be best if he took another exit.

“No, I’ll get a cab.”

“Fine,” he said simply. “Call me later?”

She was walking away, but waved her hand dismissively to indicate she would.

Paula was thankful she was turned away from him; from behind he couldn’t spot her wide smile, her vulnerable happiness. She knew that once she was alone, she’d let out her joy. She’d laugh, yell — she’d squeeze her dogs, and maybe cry a little bit, telling them over and over again how much she loved them, how much she loved her life. It took every ounce of strength within not to hug the poor cab driver who drove up, merely seeking out an answer to the question “where to?” Paula was not a person who held emotion inside. She burst at the seams constantly; through joy, through pain, through anger. She could stay strong through a broken leg, a divorce, and even an eating disorder . . . but constricting her emotions, that was what always slipped away in the end. It was a dishonesty she had always abhorred.

Simon, on the other hand, would rather relinquish quietly in his happiness. 

He watched her walk to the end of the corner, lingering in the doorway until he was comfortable she had left safely.

Abdul was on board.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"For every piece of me that wants you, another piece backs away . . ." -- You Give Me Something, James Morrison_

It was about 6 o’clock in the evening, and everyone was out by the pool, or sitting in chairs around the many fire pits scattered about the yard. Los Angeles could sometimes grow chilly in the evenings, around this time of the year, but it was perfect today—not a cloud in the dusky sky. The air was simply graying in the setting sun. Below, palm trees lined the hills, and traffic as usual was heavy, but they were far enough removed from any civilization up here to have a quiet party.

Simon was standing off to the side of the yard with Tony, his step brother, beer in hand, surveying his guests. He was smiling lightly to himself. A few of them, buzzed, were standing around a woman trying to balance a shish-kabob on her upper lip. Everyone was laughing.

“The place looks great,” Tony said.

“It’s not mine, really,” Simon replied casually. He was only renting the house, and spent much more of his time in hotels, or at production studios, than he did here. “But thank you. I quite like it myself.”

“Could do without the absolute mess of fire pits everywhere.”

Simon laughed.

“D’you know what, Paula said the same thing the other day. Like I had created my own living hell but in real life.”

At his own mention of her name, Simon instinctively scanned the pool for her. He found her quickly — never a difficult task— standing with Terri and a few others. She was smiling, nodding her head; she looked happy. 

It had been a few weeks since their informal business meeting, but they had fallen right into place beside one another as if they had never fallen out. Paula was quickly adapting to life with him back in it; she even spent more time with his family than she used to. They were becoming quite close again, to Simon’s immense pleasure, and he liked having her around, whenever she decided she would be.

“Didn’t you just have her over here last night?” Tony asked.

Simon nodded, only half paying mind to his brother’s question. “Hello lovely,” he said instead, greeting a passing friend, and as she sauntered through, sashaying her hips flirtatiously, he laughed, genuinely amused. He then turned back to his brother.

“Yeah, I did, she was here,” he replied at last, still smiling from the previous encounter.

“You talk about her quite a bit again.”

Simon shrugged, raising both brows, smirk retained. He wasn’t sure if Tony had a point — if he had missed it, he wasn’t particularly interested in what it was, either.

“You’ve got to get over her, mate.”

Simon, unaffected by his brother’s comment, did not miss a beat. “I am over her.” The woman he had been watching earlier was edging closer to the pool. Dangerous, yet humorous. 

“Really.” Tony sounded unconvinced, but Simon failed to notice.

“You’ve heard from mum this past week?” Simon asked, deciding to change the subject; he wasn’t interested in speaking with Tony about his relationship with Paula. “I’ve been meaning to send her a message but with all the negotiations I haven’t had much time.”

“They’re starting already?”

“Preparatory,” Simon said. “I’ve got L.A. Reid up and signed, I just need to figure out the other slot. What do you think of Cheryl?”

Tony seemed to contemplate this. “If you want to play that card, sure.”

“I was thinking of introducing her to America. You know, have a whole new artist accredited to the show? She’s brilliant, you know. She’s got a look that might launch her well here.”

“It could either be genius or disastrous,” Tony admitted, nodding.

“Paula’s negotiations are going to be fun,” Simon continued. CBS was already giving them trouble, and, at the moment, were not budging on the terms of her previous contract: she was not allowed to appear on a rival network for one more year. But they had time, and Simon wasn’t going to worry about that just yet.

“Aren’t you still engaged?” Tony was stern; he was, once again, pushing back into Simon-and-Paula territory. He was rather annoying, and Simon had forgotten why he thought it had been a good idea to have him over. 

“Sure,” Simon said, smiling again at a passing guest.

“Where is Mezghan, then?”

“I don’t know . . . couldn’t make it, I suppose.” 

He made eye contact with Paula from across the lot this time; she narrowed her eyes. Simon stuck his lower lip out in a playful pout. 

“You’re going through quite the amount of trouble for her to be on the show.”

“ _What_ is this sudden fascination with Paula?” Simon asked, growing irritated. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were after her this time around.”

“Paula is lovely. I adore her, you know that,” Tony said. “I just don’t think it’s good, you starting a fall back into the assumption that she’ll stay with you.”

Simon narrowed his eyes; this had veered far off topic, as far as he was concerned. “What? You’re talking rubbish.” 

“Face it mate, you were miserable when she broke it off. I think it’s time you grew up and got yourself over her. Plenty of women in the sea, yeah?”

“I think it’s time you did,” Simon retorted half-heartedly, but he was smiling again, suddenly amused at how serious his brother was being about nothing at all. “Paula is a friend. Always will be. I don’t have any sort of problem with that.”

“What about me?” Paula’s soft voice cut in — she had approached them. Simon turned to look at her, smiling widely.

“Nothing, darling, we were just talking about the negotiations.”

“Oh, right. Like I believe that,” she retorted, rolling her eyes. “Hi, Tony,” she offered politely, reaching forward to hug him.

“Hello darling,” Tony smiled, and they kissed each other’s cheeks.

“I was just telling Tony about how you wouldn’t like Cheryl on the panel because she’d steal your spotlight.”

Paula opened her mouth, crinkled her brow in the ridiculous assumption, and settled on slapping Simon’s arm. He laughed deeply. Tony smiled, but Simon could tell by the look on his face that he was masking something deeper.

“ _Eons_ younger than us both, too. Trouble for you. Go on, darling. Tell him. Less wardrobe budget for little Paula,” he egged, sliding his arm around her shoulder. “Dead. On. Arrival.”

Paula rolled her eyes, but nodded, playing along with his juvenile game. “Oh yeah, I’m very concerned, what with the whole two dollar wardrobe budget you have going on.” She looked pointedly at Tony for support. “And you believe that, don’t you, Tony?”

He smiled a very toothy smile, amused at her quick wit. “Oh, of course.”

Paula looked up at Simon, who beamed proudly down at her; not many could keep up with the Cowells' particular brand of sarcasm and yet she always managed. 

“I thought maybe I’d join in your conversation but I see it would’ve been a better idea to shove your used Botox needles into my eyes.” 

Simon once again let out a deep laugh; Tony joined in this time.

“It’s in the Cowell name,” Tony admitted as it died down, and Paula nodded, laughing a little, too, the funny, staccato sound reminding Simon, as it always did, of a chipmunk.

“I know.” Paula wasn’t done with her joke — she was excited now at the response her audience had given her. “A lot of those to go through! I'd take years!” Her voice rose in pitch.

“Paula, Paula, please — shush, grown-ups are talking,” Simon teased, patting her shoulder. She shook her head, rolling her eyes again, calming down — she settled, then, standing next to him as they continued talking. Simon kept his arm around her. He was not a tall man, but he always felt as though he towered when she rested in the nook of his arm.

“I’m going inside for a little,” Paula announced, after a few minutes, only to Simon. She pulled away from him, nodded to Tony, and walked toward the back entrance of the house. Simon watched her, suddenly more interested in where she was going than what Tony was saying about Nick.

“Wait, darling,” Simon called, beginning to follow her. He then seemed to remember it was rude to leave in the middle of a conversation; he stopped, letting Tony finish his sentence. He did, and then started off after her. 

Tony shot Simon one last accusing glance.

“We’re friends, Tony,” Simon assured, his smile coming back. 

“Right — sure you are, old boy.”

But Simon was already following Paula into the house, setting his beer on the arm of a lawn chair, too concerned with losing sight of her to hear.

\- - - -

“So Tony doesn’t like that we’re speaking again,” Simon said, leaning onto the countertop with his palms. He was watching Paula, who was going through cabinets looking for a green tea packet. She shot him a glance which he knew meant _‘elaborate.’_

“He has this ludicrous fantasy that I’m still pining after you, and I’ll have my heart shattered when we get together again and you leave me forever.”

Paula said nothing at first, raising a brow. It had been the first time either one of them ventured anywhere near the topic of their break-up; she wasn’t sure if she wanted to go there — dangerous territory.

“Again.” Simon offered in a playful truce, raising both brows in a humorous gesture.

Paula went back to doing what she was doing. He was joking, surely; she knew by that face.

“I thought it seemed like he didn’t like me.”

“Tony’s a bastard, don’t worry about him,” Simon reassured, nonchalantly, clinking the bottom of an empty wine glass against the countertop, suddenly wanting something to do with his hands. He looked toward the floor, ran his tongue over his lips. The white floor danced slightly; he realized, all too suddenly and for the first time that evening, that he was slightly buzzed. How many beers had he had again? He had lost count.

Paula was silent. 

“When’s the last time you had sex?” Simon asked, without prompt.

She practically whipped around at this incredulous question; this made him want to laugh. He fought it and won, incredibly, but his face was flushed. If she were any more animated, he thought she might sprout wings and launch herself at him in a positively lethal kill.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Simon stared back at her, unrelenting. He was challenging her. She suddenly realized she loathed that face. It was the same arrogant expression he had given Tony earlier. _Asshole. Annoying, irritating, asshole. This is what it was like to have a brother and a spouse, all in one bizarre, annoying man._

“When’s the last time you shagged, Paula?” Simon repeated his question.

Paula opened her mouth in protest, but nothing of particular defense came out. “When’s the last time you did?!” She threw out instead, her tone loud, high, and defensive.

“Last night,” he goaded, trying to make the answer sound nonchalant; instead, it came out shaky as he tried to suppress another laugh.

“Yeah, okay sure, and I’m Whitney Houston!”

Simon pursed his lips in utter amusement at that. “You’d be a load more fun if you were,” he managed, but dare he say any more and he would burst into deep, choking laughter. He knew when to stop, and shut up.

“You are such a liar, Simon,” Paula rolled her eyes, hastily busying herself with the tea once more, refusing to look at him. She knew what he was doing. “My lord.”

He _was_ lying, and so he said nothing more. 

“I don’t even care, so why are we talking about this? God,” she continued, one last attempt to expel the hot, angry air around her. Such a ridiculous game he played with her; sometimes Paula thought he’d pull a string on her back if she had one and use her as his wind-up toy. He’d have the same stupid look on his face in doing so. 

Her cell phone rang, then, and, thankful for the interruption, Paula seized the opportunity. She walked away from him, picking it up.

“Hello?” She answered, though she already knew it was her publicist, Jeff, from the caller ID.

From the kitchen, Simon watched as she spoke, paying close mind to her expressions. Paula had a face that was rather easy to read thankfully. For the most part, they remained neutral—sometimes shifted to concern, always kept determination— the little crease below her mouth visible as she frowned slightly once or twice. She began tracing the back of the couch with her fingernails at one point; Simon knew this meant she was troubled. 

He saw her nod; looked at her face. It was one of a determined business woman, taking charge, telling the people who managed her life just how to go about it. Sometimes Paula had to be firm; sometimes Paula was frustrated — sometimes she wasn’t sure what to do and they never seemed to provide adequate guidance. They weren’t the best team around, and Simon often wondered why she had kept them with her for so long. Most of her staff were utterly useless from everything he’d seen over the years.

“Yeah, okay — I’ll be right there,” he heard her close out with at last, and she hung up. She didn’t come back to him immediately. Instead, she rapped her fingers against the headboard of the couch, pursing her lips. She seemed to forget where she was.

Simon took advantage of the moment; wandered toward the doorway where the rooms met.

“Were you heading somewhere?” He tried, carefully.

Paula’s eyes wandered over to him, and she seemed to recover.

“Yeah, I’ve got to meet with my lawyer,” she said, beginning to shuffle around the room for her bag and her car keys. “Jeff also has a few things to talk about with him and he wants me there.”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Funny he can’t do it himself.”

“Stop,” she warned. “I have to go. I’ll call you, alright?”

Simon gave her a longing, pouting glance, and raised his brows, smiling through his frown. Paula wanted to kick him for looking so damn adorable; it made her want to stay.

“Don’t,” she warned again, and rapped him on the arm lightly. “I’ve gotta go.”

“No you don’t,” Simon almost whined, but knew he had lost the argument as soon as it had begun. Paula was already turned away from him.

“It’s got something to do with the contract negotiations,” she mumbled into her bag. She looked back up at him for a moment, keys in hand; he held one arm out in response, stuck his lower lip out even further. Instinctively, she moved forward and into his embrace. Being short, she stood on her tip-toes to reach around his neck and hug him fully. He buried his face against the side of her head and kissed it once. Paula, a bit surprised at the sudden intimacy, pulled away.

“You’d better hurry,” he teased. “Every second you’re not on contract, Mariah Carey’s ego is given a pep talk.”

Paula scrunched her nose, not phased, as she turned to leave once more. “I don’t get it. You’re weird.”

“For when it can come out again as she takes your chair.” 

She didn’t turn around, but Simon narrowly avoided the flying keychain aimed at his head.

“When was it NOT out?” She shot back, exiting.

Simon laughed to himself as the door closed. Then, less amusingly, he realized he was alone once more.

Blowing air through his lips, he slowly entered the living room, sinking into the sofa. He remembered vaguely that his company was outside, but didn’t particularly feel like joining them. His buzz was wearing off. 

Instead, he picked up his cell phone. After a few long, idle moments, he found Mezghan’s name. He stared at the screen before putting it down. He almost dialed her, but decided against it. It didn’t seem exciting, and she probably wouldn’t want to come, anyway.


	3. Three

Simon rolled the sleeves of his black sweater up, leaned against the balcony railing, and thought, deeply, about his next move. 

He was standing outside with Paula, who had yet again joined him for dinner this week. It was thankfully just the two of them; no crowd, no precocious step-brothers, no staff — even the housekeeper had been let off at five. Paula had not brought along anyone from her entourage either. For once. 

It had been a good week.

The wind tickled at his face; the dry air felt dusty and annoying, but he particularly liked the way it blew Paula’s hair around her own, causing a couple of perplexed huffs as she tucked flyaway, disobedient strands behind her ears.

“It’s getting a bit too cold for me here.” 

Simon was only half serious, but Paula rolled her eyes anyhow. 

”And you’re supposed to come from England?”

His gaze fell upon her, humorously, adoringly. She ignored it. 

“Paula, you know how much I defy the laws of nature.”

“It’s Los Angeles!” Being cold in the bitter part of Los Angeles was a little like being hot during the summer in Antarctica. Truthfully, though, it wasn’t that that had bothered her — something else was on her mind. 

Simon, thankfully, hadn’t seemed to notice her heightened outburst.

“I think I’ll start my vacation soon,” he continued, and she felt her shoulders release at the confirmation. “Next week.”

Paula did her best to avoid his eyes. “ _Already?_ ”

Simon shrugged. “That’s normal time for me, love, you know that.”

Paula was quiet. What could she say, other than she didn’t want him to leave? It’d be admission to a vulnerability she didn’t want to revisit. 

Truthfully, she wasn’t angry. She had just been so used to being at this house, filling her time with working on the X Factor, going in and out of meetings, busying herself. His vacation had approached and reared its ugly, bullish head before she could have even remembered it was coming. 

Time was creeping up, too, and fast. She still had to get out of her bundle with CBS — that little thorn in her side squeaked at her — negotiations were creeping along without much progress. 

_Hurry up, Paula._

He was also leaving her.

“You’re still going on vacation?” Her voice was low, for fear she’d lose control of it. She was looking at the ground. 

His smile fell, grew into a questioning glance; he waited for her to continue, knowing she would. Feeling his eyes on her, she lifted her own head — meeting them.

“We’ve got so much work to do!”

Simon turned away from her, leaned back against the railing. His gaze wandered until his eyes were looking up and away, distractedly, toward the roof, squinting from the dust. 

Paula watched him expectantly.

“You’re welcome to come along,” he offered at last. He wasn’t budging.

Paula laughed, despite herself.

“I can’t, Simon, I can’t,” she replied between chuckles of disbelief, shaking her head. “I have about ten meetings coming up next week alone.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not as though I won’t be working for half of it. Do you really know me at all, love?”

Paula had to admit this was true, and she considered it for a moment. Decidedly it did little to alleviate. Without him around, she feared she might lose incentive to work on the show. Paula had always prided herself on independence; she was extremely excited to be involved, of course . . . but something about this show didn’t quite feel like home. Not yet. 

Once in a lifetime did Paula work better with a partner. Strangely enough, whenever Simon was involved, it seemed to always become one of those times. She needed a partner and he needed a partner, and they were each other’s. 

In their best of times, Simon could do whatever he wanted, alone, and it would work out in the end. He was James Bond, the suave action hero — forgiven and always accomplished, with panache to boot; still coming out on top despite any obstacles. Paula had it, too, but she also knew she wasn’t going to be Wonder Woman if she didn’t work, work, work.

What strange luck he always had. What strange, strange luck. 

It was exhausting.

“We’ve got plenty of time, darling,” Simon interrupted her whirlwind; she realized he was addressing her again.

“What about _her?_ ” Paula suddenly deadpanned. 

Simon was a bit shocked, and his silence alluded as such. Paula never mentioned Mezghan, and when she did, it was always awkward. 

“Paula,” he started carefully, but sincerely. “You— know she doesn’t matter when it comes to this.” 

“Oh, right, I know!” She had closed her eyes at this, thrown her arms up. It hadn’t been the response he wanted, and he frowned, knowing he had most certainly said the wrong thing. “I just _know_ that your bride-to-be matters absolutely nothing to you! That’s so _good_ to know, Simon! That's great!"

Simon frowned. “That’s not what I meant,” he tried again, but it was too late to save it, and he fell silent instead. If he spoke any more he wasn’t sure what he’d say, and that was always dangerous. 

“Fine,” he concluded at last. “Let’s drop it then yeah? You can’t come to Barbados this year.”

“No,” Paula responded, sighing, a bit more nicely. “No— I can’t.”

\- - - - 

“So, what did you say you thought about Cheryl?”

Paula finished swallowing her tea and nodded. A few hours had passed, and they had retired indoors due to the wind. “Keep going,” she commanded simply. They would come back to that later.

Simon looked down at the list he and a few others had produced over the last month.

“Mariah Carey?”

Paula scrunched her nose.

“Oh come on,” Simon said.

“Too much ego on one show,” Paula responded.

“She’s got an enormous following,” Simon pointed out. “She’s an artist in her own right, she’s amazingly spoiled.”

“She’s also pregnant.”

He shrugged. “I was only asking because everyone at Fox is nagging at me to stir up some controversy. She’s expressed an interest before. It could be interesting.”

“Yeah, well, if she wasn’t ready to push a person out of her.”

“Two, actually,” Simon smirked. “And that doesn’t make it any less interesting.”

Paula let out a tiny laugh, then shook her head. “No. You really think you’d want to compete with her?”

Simon raised both brows. “You act as though I’ll be the one competing?”

Paula hit his shoulder, but she was smiling; Simon did not have to take back what he said.

“Anyway,” he continued, setting the paper down on the table in front of them. This couch had now become their undeclared workplace, and that was alright with him. “I’m fairly convinced that she would be so grateful about being on one of my shows that she would just shut up, and do whatever I asked.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Paula feigned humorous exasperation. “It’s like you go out of your way to prove my points!”

“So,” Simon concluded, ignoring her gleefully. “We’ve decided that Mariah’s in the running, yes?”

“Simon, how? She’s _pregnant_ ,” she stressed, more seriously this time, more and more perplexed each time she had to remind him of the severity of such a condition.

“Yeah, you’re right. Yeah,” he surrendered, looking down at his paper once more.

Paula reached for her pen to cross out her name, but Simon touched her wrist. She paused; met his eyes.

“Compromise with me.”

“How!” 

“At least let me have her if the opportunity presents itself.”

Paula said nothing, and his fingers loosened against her skin. She wanted so badly to keep her expression just as firm as before, but she could feel it softening. It was sweet that he looked for her approval.

“Whatever,” she relented, sighing. 

Simon grinned triumphantly and scribbled a _“maybe”_ by her name.

They went through a few more, name by name, all of whom Paula pointed out pros and cons of. When the last name came around again—Cheryl—Simon was stuck.

“We’re back to Chezza,” he stated, fondly but anxiously.

Paula considered, eying him from over her tea cup.

“Well?” He pressed.

“What do you think?”

“I have no bloody idea, that’s why I’m asking you.”

Paula linked her fingers, held her hands out away from her body, pursed her lips. 

“Cheryl’s pretty . . . good, actually. We should go through some more people, but present her. Then if nobody else comes around, we’ll have her on the list.”

Simon, impressed, nodded. She continued.

“Release her name before mine, really close to auditions, okay? That way everyone will think it’s impossible to get me when you have the woman.”

Simon smiled, fully approving of the clever business ploy. Four years prior, Paula wouldn’t have dreamed of a publicity stunt like that — but she was learning how to play with the studios, learning to be coy, learning to spar. And as much as he wanted to accredit that to himself . . . he’d worry about that later. 

He was hit with his sudden pang of wanting to kiss her again. 

_Damn. Damn, damn, damn._

“They wouldn’t think I’d have two beautiful pop star brunettes, you’re right.”

He had meant it to be a compliment, but by the look on her face, he wasn’t sure she had taken it that way. In fact, he wasn’t sure she had been listening to him at all? She looked far off and away. He placed a hand on her bare thigh, reassuringly. She noticed it from the corner of her eye, but otherwise said nothing.

“Both of whom _dreadfully_ sweet. Too sweet.” 

“Well, whatever,” Paula’s tone was neutral. “I think we’re good for the day.” 

She pushed the papers against the table, evening out the pile, and set them down. Before she could get up, however, one of her small dogs jumped up into her lap; she smiled.

“Hey baby,” she cooed, petting her with one hand, leaning forward to pick up her tea cup with the other.

Simon loved Paula’s dogs, and even though he had always been insistent on keeping this house spotless, Paula didn’t listen. She had been spending too much time here nowadays to not bring them with her, she argued; it would be irresponsible parenting, after all. Of course Simon didn’t truly mind in the end. He fussed over the tiny animals almost as much as she did. He reached out to pet the little creature, who licked his hand gently in response.

“I’m bloody knackered,” he finally admitted, watching the cute little tongue against his finger. He couldn’t even count the hours he had before bed—he seemed to always be up all night, working out the kinks of his last season of UK television, scheduling all sorts of publicity events with Max. It was exhausting, but it was life.

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” Paula said, and rose to her feet, picking the dog up, tucking her beneath her arm. “Come on Bessie Moo,” she called to the other little one, who trotted over immediately.

Simon got up and followed, holding the door open when she reached the entryway.

Paula stopped and dialled someone from her cell; one of her assistants picked up. Simon could tell by the muffled, tinny voice that it was the younger one.

“Hey,” Paula said. “I’m finished; come and get me please.”

Her assistant must have agreed quickly because they both hung up without a goodbye. 

She looked at him, trying to read the expression on his face, but it was all the same lately; contentment. She offered a little sideways smile.

“You could’ve let me give you a ride over,” he said.

“I don’t trust your driving.” 

It was true; Simon consistently operated under a strange, reckless road God complex, and seemed to believe the rules did not apply to him. He got tickets constantly, often for the same exact offense as the last, month by month, never learning from them. Truthfully she was surprised he still had a license in this country.

\- - - -

It took only a few minutes for a Mercedes to pull up outside, and Paula, opening the door to leave, felt a sudden pang of . . . loneliness? Abandonment? as she did so. She stopped, stood with her hand on the handle, biting the side of her mouth. She felt like she was running from somewhere; somewhere that wasn’t home. 

But where was home? 

“I’ll call you after my meeting,” she added, looking back at him. She hoped her legal team had been successful and would provide her with some good news soon. She was already sick of meeting with her lawyer to discuss contracts and liabilities.

Simon nodded. “Love you.”

“Love you back.”

His expression hardened; she waited. He was going to say something more.

“I miss you, Paula.”

She didn’t know what to do with that information. He bewildered her; he was painful. Her gaze lingered before she answered him, taken aback and stumbling, uncertain of her own next words.

“I’m right here,” she finally settled on. 

She found herself unable to look at him suddenly; she turned away at last.

She left.

Her dogs trailed her happily down the driveway, and she helped them into the passenger’s seat so they could sit comfortably on her lap. She busied herself with them, telling them to calm down and share, avoiding Simon’s gaze. Within moments, her window had been rolled up, and the car rolled away.

Simon watched from the doorway until it was gone.


	4. Four

Paula sighed heavily, bringing her left arm up and behind to massage her neck. She was recovering beautifully, thanks to her last treatment, and was finally in less pain than she had been in since she could remember. Sometimes, though, if she sat for too long, her neck, her back, or both, would protest. Usually interesting distractions helped. 

Unfortunately there was nothing interesting here.

She couldn’t help feeling a sharp twinge of frustration. She was still sitting in an executive office, while Simon was off in the tropics, enjoying himself. Her lawyer, her publicist, and her staff were supposed to have taken care of this months ago, and yet here she was. Still here. Still caught in the middle.

She decided not to go there now. Closing her eyes, she squeezed the skin of her neck, repeating a calming mantra to herself. She sat, she waited, bouncing slightly on one leg. Nothing good ever came out of dwelling on negativity.

Despite the struggles she was facing now, Paula didn’t regret the last project for a moment. It had been a wonderful year of her life, doing her dance show, even if she hadn’t particularly kept two feet on the ground in the process and thereafter. 

But maybe, just maybe, Paula Abdul wasn’t meant to have two feet on the ground.

In a sudden dose of reality and as if on cue, her lawyer, joined by her publicist, Jeff, opened the door; Paula looked up. She met Jeff’s eyes, her own full and hopeful. Jeff didn’t smile — instead his jaw was held fixed, and it told her nothing much. Despite their ups and downs, he had spent quite a few years with Paula; they knew each other well.

“Stay seated,” he whispered, standing behind her chair, placing one hand on the back of it. Paula’s heart leapt at such ominous words.

She turned around to face him, as far as her neck would allow. 

“Why?”

Her question was answered almost immediately. Two executives filed in; Paula recognized one of them as the head of network. She rose.

“Miss Abdul,” the first one said. “How are you?” He reached for her hand.

“I’m doing good, how ‘bout you?” They went around briefly with introductions; she shook each of their hands.

“Right. So — let’s get this out of the way, first and foremost. We’ve been reviewing the terms and it’s not particularly good news, I’m afraid. It was stated, clearly, that you would not appear on a rival TV network for at least one year after signing up as executive producer on the last show.”

Paula nodded. This was obvious.

“Anndddd, that’s — all you found out?” She laughed, unsurely. “We knew that part.”

The network head did not smile. Instead, his partner continued.

“The remaining negotiations are finished, but this contract is rigid. If you want to be on this fall’s X Factor, you obviously need to sign with us, which you cannot do while that stands on your last contract.”

Paula sighed, massaging her temples now.

“Look, yes. Yes. Yes, I — yes. We’ve already established that. That’s why we’ve offered them money, I thought.” 

Jeff placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

 _It was all so exhausting._ Her neck bothered her. Simon’s absence bothered her. The fact that this was still going on, bothered her.

“Your last offer had been reviewed and not accepted as of 3pm yesterday,” the man replied.

Paula glared. There was a baited silence across the table; her lawyer moved in, taking the reins. After a long few minutes of hardly listening, however, Paula interjected again.

“So, that’s it, then? We give them more money.”

Everyone fell silent; the two executives met her eyes.

“We will do all we can to aid you in the process, Miss Abdul, but if we cannot come to a deal before Q3 close of business, we will need to find someone else. We have little time to spare on contract liabilities."

“We’ll come to a deal,” Jeff cut in, simply. Paula looked up at him. 

“Simon wants me on the show,” she stated, quick glances between everyone in the room, searching for validation. “I’m sure that counts for something.”

“Simon Cowell does not overrule a legal contract, Miss Abdul, no matter what his position.”

Her neck protested; she reached back again to touch it. The frostiness of the room chilled her; she was uncomfortable. This world, the world of corporations and negotiations and deals on a reality television show — it hardly represented the best of times for her. But she would still win out. She had gotten her way before — she was savvy in business when she wanted to be— this was no different . . .

\- - - - 

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months. December passed; January seemed to drag. Paula spent every night that she could on the phone with Simon, though the time difference made their schedule wonky. At first the conversations had been mostly discussion pertaining to the show, but lately, they talked about whatever they felt like.

Toward the beginning of all of this newfound time off, Paula had been taking care of herself, revelling in it. She took her dogs for walks on hiking trails with her cousin; she treated her dad out to dinner. She went with Wendy to her nephew’s basketball games. She even had some time for dancing in the evenings. But in the last few weeks she had found herself growing restless; almost beginning to resent the quiet, the unmoving. She didn’t know what to do with all of this time and desperately wanted to go back to work. 

She had started wanting Simon back, too, and had cursed herself for this.

\- - - -

On this particular tame December day, she had found herself with her cousin, Tara. They were in the middle of discussing dog groomers when he called. She checked the ID, and held her hand up apologetically.

“Sorry, Tara — it’s Simon.”

Tara knew that there were few calls that would require her to wait; Simon was one of them. She nodded.

“—Yeah?” Paula answered her phone, playfully but coyly.

“You’ve got a _bloooooodyyyy_ load of explaining to do,” Simon replied on the other end, his voice somewhat husky.

“Are you drunk?” 

“Now why would you immediately accuse me of something like that?” 

“Because,” Paula stated, but didn’t elaborate. “What do you want, Simon?”

“Oh, I was just informed that you’ve still neglected to sign our network contract. What the bloody fuck are you doing over there, miss Abdul— recording an album?”

Paula rolled her eyes, stuck her tongue in cheek. “Maybe I am.”

“God knows it would take just as long.”

“Oh shut up. I’m trying.”

“Paula, is your team having a difficult time? I know it’s hard for illiterates to make negotiations and all . . .”

“Stop it, Simon,” she warned sternly, and he did. She could tell he was smiling on the other line — if only she could reach through the phone . . . 

Tara seemed interested in the conversation now, and edged closer, leaning against the balcony railing beside her. “Hi, Simon,” she threw in, just loudly enough to be audible.

“Who is that with you?” Simon asked.

“Tara,” Paula answered.

“Hello darling,” Simon offered back, politely.

“He says hi,” Paula reiterated; Tara playfully waggled both brows in response. 

“—But seriously, darling,” Simon continued, taking on a more serious tone. “Why haven’t you told me any of this sooner? Are you having issues?”

“No,” Paula said. “I mean . . . no. Not really. I can’t really talk about it right now. I’ll take care of it.”

“I can help you, love. I honestly didn’t think it would have to come to this, but I can.”

“It doesn’t,” Paula protested -- and accidentally bit her tongue mid sentence. “AHH — shit,” she cried out. She took a deep, drawling breath in to soothe the throbbing pain.

Simon didn’t seem to notice; Tara, however, put a hand on her shoulder. 

“You want ice?” She mouthed. Paula nodded, her face contorted in pain. 

Tara turned on her heel quickly, retreated back into the house. Paula, alone to speak more freely with Simon, continued.

“Ahh,” she whined under her breath, and then spoke again, recovering slightly. “You’d better not be enjoying yourself too much while I’m over here working my ass off.”

“Right, working,” Simon teased. “You’re talking to your cousin about how beautiful life is or something else equally as pitiful.”

“For your inforMATION,” Paula sniped playfully, “we were talking about doggie spas, thank you _very_ much!” She laughed, then, unable to suppress it any longer. Simon smiled, listening to her.

“I’m coming back soon,” came his reply after a moment, loving the sound. “Very soon. Almost time.”

“I thought you were going back to London?”

“I’ll come and see you first,” he said. Paula couldn’t tell if he was serious or not, but she felt her chest flutter all the same.

“I miss you,” he said again.

“I miss you too,” she admitted. “A lot, actually.”

They didn’t speak for a moment. Tara had come back, with some ice, and stood, waiting, for Paula to hang up.

“Listen," Paula started. "I’ve gotta go.”

“Whaaaattt? I just called you!”

“It’s rude to talk on the phone when you have company,” Paula reprimanded. Useful advice for the both of them.

“I had to speak with you. It’s business. I’m working.”

“Yeah, right. Business.” 

She glanced again at Tara, a bit nervous now; sudden self-consciousness at being observed. It didn’t look like she could hear him, though, and for that she was thankful.

“I’m going, Simon,” she continued.

“Fine, you irritating woman,” he said. “Love you, then.”

“L—ove you, too,” she replied, eyes fully on Tara.

“What was that?” Simon egged on. “I didn’t get that.”

“I love you too!” Paula snapped; Tara poked her side at this, rendering her unable to suppress another staccato laugh — she was ticklish. “Now goodbye!”

“You loveeeee him,” Tara teased as she hung up. Paula rolled her eyes, bat her hand away, and tucked her phone in her pocket.

“He’s so annoying,” came her feeble defense, accompanied by a contradicting smile.

“I know that look, Abdul. You love him.”

Paula shook her head, rolled her eyes once more. 

“Yeah, well. He’s been pushing it lately.”

It was a lie, of course.

\- - - -

Several days later, Paula was sitting in the same office at the production studio. She was accompanied by her legal team. The same two network executives sat across, her publicist next to her.

“Ms. Abdul, we . . . regret to inform that we are no longer able to represent these interests.”

Paula, who had read the first line of the document placed in front of them, looked up immediately. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“Excuse me?” Jeff asked.

“This is much more than we had anticipated offering. Unless you want to cover costs yourself, we must respectfully decline on behalf of the network. There is a lot at stake here — please understand. We’re already behind schedule and we need to get this show on air. Starting next week, if you haven’t signed, we will have to look for a replacement.”

Paula felt as though she had snapped in two. 

“What are you saying, I can’t do this now!?” 

“I’m sorry, Ms. Abdul. You will have two days to respond.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jeff managed, angrily.

“It is an inconvenience for both parties involved. We had been hoping to work this out sooner. The show must go on, however. We sincerely hope you understand.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Jeff said. “And I say it’s bullshit.”

Paula said nothing; instead she rose, slowly. Her legs felt strange, and unattached to her body. She knew tears were coming, but she wanted to get out of here first. 

“I need a minute.” 

She refused to look at her team, nor at the producers, and exited the meeting room. Everyone watched her leave, but knew better than to follow her.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick disclaimer: some (tame) sexual content and a mention of anxiety in this chapter.

Simon had just touched down in Los Angeles when he received her call. He had stepped out from customs, smiling widely, thanking his assistant for taking his luggage. His hands had been full of keys, cigarette packs, and his phone, and when he heard it ring, it took him a moment to check the ID.

 **PAULA ABDUL** flashed, in blaring letters across the screen, unmistakable.

He hadn’t been expecting her to call for at least another few hours; she must have been tracking his flight. _Cute_. He’d be sure to give her a hard time about that. 

“—What’s wrong, love,” he said humorously, picking up as he rummaged for his stuff. “Couldn’t wait until I got out of the—“

“Simon, Simon,” Paula’s voice, choked through tears, shattered the game into invisible, countless shards. Simon’s face fell immediately; he stopped.

“What’s the matter?” 

“Simon, I — we can’t do it,” she continued, taking a shaky breath. She sounded as if she couldn’t breathe. “I can’t do your show, I can’t make a deal, we can’t do anything. I’m—I’m, they won’t let me onto the show, they won’t let me.”

Anxiety. She sounded terrible. Awful. The repetition was senseless; he couldn’t make it out. Simon needed to keep her calm before he could understand; he decided to focus on that.

“Calm down, Paula, calm down. Please, calm down. What are you on about?”

“I can’t do your show! Do you understand, Simon, I need you! I need you right now! Please, I need you!”

“Love, stop crying. Please. Where are you?”

“I’m – atthehouse,” she managed.

“I can’t understand you,” his voice was gentle but firm. It wasn’t like Paula to admit defeat like this; he was worried.

“I’m at the house!” She repeated, more loudly.

“My rental house?”

“Yes!”

Simon hadn’t been planning on going straight there, but this was Paula. He lowered the phone to his chest, muttered some directions to his assistant. 

“Slight change of plans,” he said. “We’re going to the other house.”

“Understood,” the other answered, and headed off toward their driver.

Simon watched, then pressed the phone to his ear once more. 

“Hang on, darling. I’m coming.”

\- - - - 

There had been no questions asked when he walked through the door; no questions at all. No questions when he found her, in the living room, sitting on the couch with a little tan and black dog in her lap, cheeks stained with tears. No questions when he set everything down and approached her.

She took a sharp breath inward. She wasn’t crying; she seemed tired, but it looked as though she still was having a bit of trouble getting her breath steady. Simon didn’t move at first; he stood above her for a few moments. She looked up at him. He blinked, and then opened his arms for an embrace.

Paula stood, gently placing the dog on the couch, and practically collapsed against him, throwing her arms around his neck. 

Simon held her without a word, running an arm slowly up and down her back. He had no idea what the full story was, how serious it was, or even if he could do anything to help. Regardless of anything, seeing her like this was torture.

Her pup was whining behind them; she didn’t like being neglected; didn’t understand why her mother was so upset. Simon had to admit he felt a deeper likeness to that little dog than he ever had in his life.

After a few long, lingering moments, he tilted his neck, placed his mouth against her ear. He whispered in a soft, deep voice — the most soothing he could muster. 

“Now, what’s the problem, love.”

Paula pulled away and dabbed at her eyes with a carefully trained finger, taking heed not to smudge her makeup in the process. 

“I’m just, having a hard time,” she chose her words carefully. Simon narrowed his eyes, concentrating. Paula was an emotional woman; she often got upset over things inexplicable to him. But he tried.

“Why’s that, darling?”

“I’m . . . too . . . old . . . for them to want me, on the show,” she struggled to say, through more shaky breaths. 

_Was she overreacting?_

“What?” Simon almost laughed; it was incredulous. “Is that honestly what they said? That’s a bloody lawsuit, come on Paula.” 

“They’re just — they’re looking for ways to — find someone else. They don’t want it to be me. I know that’s why.”

Paula didn’t know, truthfully. This had certainly spiraled, quickly and not prettily. 

_Was this about the show?_

“Darling, please. This is literally a no-brainer.” Simon growled. “It’s your bloody team for fuck’s sake. Listen, love, I’ll handle this — alright?”

But he could tell Paula wasn’t listening to him. She was far and away, staring at the wall behind them. 

She had always been an avid believer in hard work, in gratitude, in honor. She knew through toil and determination she could get whatever she wanted, in the end . . . she felt anything was possible through hard work. It meant a lot of pain along the way, but she would win the day, if she tried enough. 

_Was this even about that?_

“Come on, Paula, come on,” Simon took her hand, ushered her toward the stairs. “Go on up. You’ll stay here tonight, yeah? Get yourself settled; I’ve got to make some calls. Do you need me to have someone get any of your things?”

Paula shook her head. She had been staying here more than she cared to admit; her stuff was already here.

“Good. Alright, love, I’ll be up soon. Have a sleep or something, yeah?”

\- - - -

Paula wasn’t tired. She paced the upstairs hallway for a bit; ran her hand against the wall, studied its clean paint. Eventually, she trailed into his bedroom. She sat down upon his bed, exhausted. 

This game she was playing with herself was draining. This game — the one she had invented, to prevent herself from thinking about how much she wished she had never broken up with him. This game, such a stupid name. It wasn’t even really a game, because it wasn’t fun, and it definitely wasn’t working.

Maybe it was the time apart that had done it. Maybe it was the time _together_ that had done it. Maybe it was the fact that now he had another woman in his life that had done it; she didn’t know. But whatever the case, Paula hated this illusion more and more.

She glanced up and her eyes fell upon a mirror, standing, lonely, across the room. She narrowed her eyes at the reflection.

\- - - - 

Simon entered the bedroom almost an hour later. She wasn’t asleep, but she was laying, a bit curled up, upon the mattress. When he entered, she sat up.

“Didn’t expect to find you in here,” he stated, and sat down beside her. She shrugged in response.

“My team will take care of it. The best ones I have are in the works right now. It’s all set, love.”

She blinked, ashamed, and forced herself to stare at the perfect white satin.

Simon pat her shoulder and rose to his feet. But Paula grabbed his hand, stopping him mid way, squeezing his fingers within her own. He stopped; looked back at her.

“Thank you.”

And then, before either one of them knew what was happening, he had bent down, took her face in his hand, and kissed her.

It was a gentle kiss, but he drew it out. She smelled and tasted exactly as he remembered, and there was a little something more there, too. Immediately, upon realizing that little something was the scent of tears, he pulled away. 

He shouldn’t have kissed her. Not like this.

Paula’s eyes peeled open, too. She looked up at him, begged him to stay. 

He moved forward, and kissed her again.

Paula’s lips were soft, glossy, and sweet. His cheek against her nose was wet. 

_Maybe there was more to it than the negotiations going badly. Maybe, just maybe . . ._

He felt her hand slide up, rest upon the back of his neck.

How much he had missed her . . . it made this physically painful. How much time had passed? So much time, too much time. But somehow it was as if they had not gone a moment without kissing like this. 

Paula broke their contact for a moment. She took a deep, gasping breath. Simon pulled away, too, following her lead — but she did not open her eyes. He waited.

“Thank you,” she said again. But before Simon could answer, she craned her neck forward, and kissed him once more. Instead of speaking, he gratefully obliged.

For several minutes they continued, and Paula ended up beneath him, gently on her back. From above her, Simon steadied himself with one hand upon the mattress — brought the other down to brush his fingers against her thigh; a comforting, feathered caress. She shivered at the touch.

Paula turned her head to look toward the opposite wall; he kissed her neck for a few moments. He stopped after a bit, lifted his gaze, and looked toward where she was. 

“What’s the matter?” He was breathy; vexed at the thought of stopping.

“Nothing.” 

She closed her eyes again. 

Simon moved down to kiss her neck at that; her chest heaved as she released a heavy breath.

“I want you,” Simon admitted. 

Paula said nothing, but she wrapped her leg around his midsection.

“Stop stalling then.”

He began teasing at the strap of her dress with his hands; Paula was too tired to help him. She closed her eyes and let him slide it off, slowly . . . gently, taking extra care around her neck. Quite momentarily she was in nothing but her black undergarments, and Simon, who could feel his own arousal as he ran his nose against her stomach, found himself wondering just how he had been able to stand this. He buried his face in her neck, kissed her over and over.

“Simon,” Paula finally said. “Simon. Simon.”

Simon stopped, letting his face rest against her chest. She smelled like cinnamon and vanilla; he hadn’t noticed the vanilla before. It was new, it was a twinge.

“What,” he asked, his voice heavy.

“Can you just, hold me.”

It was a simple request. And Simon was not so much disappointed as he was surprised. 

But, of course, he obliged.

Pushing himself upward with one arm, he re-positioned himself; laid next to her. He stayed still; he wondered. He swallowed, frowned, and then lifted the covers. She followed suit, and lay quietly beneath them, pushing her body against his. Simon lowered his arm around her waist; pulled her tiny frame against him tighter. 

Paula closed her eyes, finally, and began to drift. Soon her chest rose and fell lightly; her nose whistled with the sharp intake of breath. She was asleep.

He wasn’t tired. He laid in silence with her, anyway, the back part of her messy bun tickling against his nose in the dark.


	6. Six

Paula stirred early; it was silent, and presumably before anyone else. It wasn’t light out yet, the faintest hues of the first morning blues barely streaming into the room from behind the drapes. She let her eyes adjust to the dark for a moment; squinted to read the digital clock. _6:02am._

She could feel Simon’s breath against the back of her neck. His grip around her waist had become so loose during the night, and she would be able to, thankfully, move away and get out of bed without disturbing him. 

She craned her neck to look back at him. In the faint light of morning she could make out his expression: somber, pensive, almost angry. His brows were kinked in his slumber. 

She lay still for a few moments longer, contemplated getting up, and finally decided she was too restless to stay in bed. Beneath the sheets, she moved away from him, as silently as she could.

Simon suddenly reached for her, and gripped her waist; she stopped, surprised that he was awake.

He pulled her back into him.

“Stay for a bit,” he mumbled, against her neck. 

Paula sighed, but stayed still — and, before she knew it, his rhythmic breathing had lulled her back into sleep.

\- - - -

When Paula opened her eyes for the second time, it was much lighter. She sat up; scanned the room. Simon was gone, and it was empty, but she could hear him talking from the living room downstairs. 

A bit alarmed . . . _how late had she slept in for?_ she slid out of bed, hurriedly. Simon rose quite late on a normal day; probably around eleven thirty in the morning. 

She searched the floor for her dress from yesterday, but found it was spotless. Seemed as though the housekeeper had already done her rounds. Somewhat embarrassed, Paula looked for something to cover up with — anything — and ended up finding a bathrobe in the doorway of the bathroom down the hall. Luckily, she passed no one on the way. Wrapping herself tight, pulling it snug around her waist, she made her way downstairs in bare feet. 

She found Simon on the phone in the kitchen. As she entered, he glanced at her and nodded in greeting.

Paula helping herself to a cup of brewed tea, resting on the kitchen island. Pretending to be distracted made it easier for her to listen to one side of his conversation. It was mostly full of _“yes”_ and _“I don’t know,”_ but she was curious anyhow.

“Right,” he was saying, leaning against the countertop. “I haven’t got a clue what you mean by that,” he continued, and then laughed. “Right. Right. Alright. Yes. Listen, I’ll call you back later tonight. No, I’m not working today. Oh just, personal reason. Yes. All good. Thank you darling, you too. Take care. Goodbye.” 

He lowered the phone, hung up with his thumb, and set it upon the table. 

His housekeeper had entered the room then, and before either one of them could speak, she smiled at them both.

“Your laundry is finished,” she said. “Do you still want the bath filled, or not?”

“Thank you, darling,” he said. “I’ll hold off on the bath, thanks.”

She nodded, and turned her attention to Paula. “Your dress is at the dry cleaners — I’m sorry for taking it without telling you — I didn’t want to wake you.”

“That’s okay,” Paula offered a tired smile, swallowed her tea. “Thanks.”

“I love it, by the way — beautiful dress.”

Paula continued to smile, but said nothing else.

“You’re wonderful,” Simon said gratefully, and with that, she winked, and left them to themselves.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Simon addressed Paula for the first time. “Hope you slept well.”

Paula shook her head yes, and took another sip of tea.

“Well,” he tried again. “Aren’t you going to say good morning to me, at least?”

“No,” came her reply. “What time is it?”

“Around eleven, I think.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” 

“Didn’t want to,” he replied simply. “You were tired.”

“What if I had a meeting today?”

“You don’t, I checked.”

“Creep,” but she was fighting a smile over her tea; this was sweet.

“Oh, come off it. You owe me a lot of nice comments this morning. I’m keeping a tab from now on,” he said. “As soon as you’re ready, I take them with sugar.”

They began walking into the living room; Paula set her cup on the coffee table. 

“You took the day off?” She asked, referencing his phone conversation. 

“Mmm,” Simon said, following her. “Will have to play catch up tomorrow, though.”

“Why?”

“I thought . . . we could use it, I suppose.”

Paula didn’t answer for a moment. 

“ . . . Ah.”

Simon raised a brow.

“You don’t agree?”

Paula voiced neither concurrence nor protest. Without a word, she was on her feet instead. She wandered the room; made her way over to an end table with white azaleas in a marble vase. “I like these flowers,” she mused, fingering the petals.

“Paula — come off it. Be serious, now. You really want to pretend as if nothing happened?”

Paula rolled her eyes, her back still turned to him. “Because nothing _did_ happen.”

Simon pursed his lips and blew a raspberry, frustrated. 

“Nothing.”

Paula bit her lip; turned around, met his eyes. He was serious. 

“How do I fix this, then? What should I do?” His brow was severe; his tone carefully sincere. “I’d like to fix things.”

She wanted so badly to tell him. Tell him that he _couldn’t_ — that there was nothing and everything to fix — tell him that she appreciated him more than she could ever say, that she felt safe with him, always — safe, beautiful, loved. She wanted to say that sleeping next to him had been the deepest most dreamless sleep she had had in over four months. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t find the words.

Instead, she started to laugh. 

It started out small; Simon stared at her, incredibly. _This woman is insane_ , was his first thought, beneath peals of her inappropriate laughter. _The very death of me, this one._

Paula couldn’t stop herself despite his glare. She kept going, for minutes — eventually she had to hold herself up, against the wall, with one arm. She gave up after a few moments and slid down toward the floor, tears pricking the corners of each eye. She closed them tight, pushing them out and over both cheeks. 

Finally, after a long time, she dabbed each corner with her thumb, and was able to speak somewhat coherently — if only just.

“Are you done, you loony bin?” Simon asked from his spot — he had long given up, and was sat on the sofa now, arms crossed over his chest. 

“I should probably switch to your PR company.” 

It was all Paula could manage.

Simon’s face brightened at this unexpected turn of events— reflected immediate surprise. 

“Really?” 

“Yes,” Paula nodded. It was high time, after all.

“Bloody finally,” was all he could say. 

She stood, unsteadily, on both feet; her laughter had subsided at last. She walked over to stand before him, smiling gently.

“You’re a good friend.” 

He wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. They held each other for a moment. _A good friend._

_But is that what they were?_

It was enough, he decided. For now. 

“I talked to producers this morning,” Simon said as they pulled apart. “We’ve decided it’s Cheryl.”

“Couldn’t get Mariah?” Paula asked.

“She’s _pregnaaant_ , darling,” he mocked.

“I know!” Paula’s voice was high, sarcastic, and excited — ignoring his own terrible impersonation of herself. “You know, I’m really excited to meet Cheryl. It’s crazy that I haven’t yet.”

This seemed to ignite something in him; she felt him drop her away. He frowned, growing more serious.

“And whose fault is that?”

Paula’s smile immediately fell. She backed up, too, frowning up at him. 

“You would’ve,” he continued, suddenly cold. “If you had come to my birthday.”

“No. No. You are _not_ starting this,” Paula warned. Simon stared right back, but her hands were tied. “We aren’t going to talk about this right now! Please.”

“You can’t admit where you’ve been wrong,” Simon accused, and suddenly he was brave, the adrenaline of last night’s events catching up at last. “Is that why you don’t want to talk about it?”

“Shut up,” she snapped, her anger searing hot. Paula was emotionally volatile — she came and went in an instant. “Just shut up.” Fleeing from him, she began searching for her phone, flitting about the room.

Simon wasn’t finished. “Do you realize how absolutely mindless it is that we’ve thrown away a perfectly good relationship over nothing?” 

“I said SHUT UP,” Paula yelled, suddenly — and he fell silent. She whisked around to face him. “YOU’RE the one who went and got engaged!”

Her voice was dangerously laced with the threat of fresh, angry tears, and Simon stayed quiet if only for this. He didn’t want to make her cry again. 

“Paula,” he started, in a much quieter tone. “She’s—“

“She’s what, Simon? I’d love to hear you explain this one. Not important? When it comes to this? Meaningless to you? Just another woman? What is she, Simon? I’d love to know.”

“We're not getting married,” Simon settled on, calmly. 

Paula stood, wordlessly, frozen, leering. She waited for him to explain.

He didn’t, at first. He wasn’t about to admit defeat this easily when he had been harboring tension and resentment for months. This was _her_ fault, as far as he was concerned. This mess. 

“I know,” came her icy reply at last. “I just don’t — understand why she’s — even here.”

“She . . .”

But Simon didn’t know how to answer. 

At first, he had thought he had found the perfect woman in Mezghan. She wasn’t Paula, but he didn’t want Paula; he wanted a distraction from Paula. A lovely one. She didn’t argue like Paula; didn’t ask the same things of him. She didn’t make him want to strangle her every other hour like Paula. She was . . . there, easily and accessibly, when Paula had not been. 

But then he realized that he hated it. He hated that she wasn’t Paula. _Would he have any other woman quite like he had had Paula?_

And so, in an act of desperation he took the first opportunity he had, hoping to fix everything . . . hoping that maybe, perhaps, he’d grow to love her — he’d grow excited and elated and inexplicably uncontrollable just as much as he was around Paula. 

He hadn’t even asked her to marry him . . . just to be there, just to stick around. The media had advocated that one. He had been glad to oblige, and went out to buy her a simple, expensive ring, playing his part in the drama. He’d hardly done the research; women were happy, for the most part, he reasoned, with big ones. He wasn’t quite sure why he had done this. 

_To make Paula angry? To make Paula jealous? To hurt Paula like he had been, so unprepared?_

Everything he had done had been about getting over Paula. And yet, here they were again, in his house, doing that inexplicable dance of theirs’ . . . little winged toys on strings. Here he was, pulling her in, again, just one more time. It hadn’t worked. Not at all.

“She’s here because you weren’t.” 

It was the truth.

He noticed, then, that she had been slipping out of the room for the entire time they were speaking. He had to make amends. 

“She’s . . . I can be done now, Paula. We can be done.”

He waited for her reply, but it didn’t come. 

Instead, Paula closed her eyes, shook her head, and stood, alone and silent, in the middle of the room. The silence was iron and cold and white, and it felt like needles against him. Simon approached, cautiously; placed a hand on her shoulder. 

“Don’t,” she finally said, shrugging him off. 

“You’re the only one afraid of this, love.”

“Why aren’t you?!” 

Simon let out a deep sigh; her voice had been shrill, emotional — had come out much more angrily than he was sure she had meant. 

“Paula,” he pleaded. “Let’s stop. Please.”

“No.” 

And she strode away, quickly and angrily, leaving him, flying up the stairs. 

She shut herself in the bedroom and locked the door. 

She hated him, loathed him, for pining this on her again, for dragging her back in, for bringing up the very thing she had been trying to forget for months. She wasn’t about to cry again for the second time in forty-eight hours. 

Not in front of him.


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Please give me something, because someday I might know my heart . . . and it might be a second too late." -- James Morrison, You Give Me Something_

Paula sat by herself for hours, shut up in the large bedroom, alone and quiet. She played with her phone, called her mother, went on Twitter. She ignored all calls from her team, and she isolated herself from Simon all evening. Luckily, he hadn’t decided to try following her. They both needed space, it seemed.

Quietly she reminisced, against her will, the very night that had been playing over and over in her head.

\- - - -

“Sick? _You’re_ sick? _” She could hear his utter disbelief through the phone, his sharp, infuriated emphasis on the word sick. “Don’t give me that rubbish. You’re not sick.”_

_"Yes I am,” Paula bit her lip, nervous._

_“What’s the matter with you, then?”_

_“I’m . . . just sick.” Her dogs began yipping at Paula’s housekeeper downstairs, who was letting someone in. “I have the flu. Stomach bug.”_

_It wasn’t entirely a lie. She_ was _sick to her stomach with worry._

_Paula and Simon had been planning this night for weeks; the night in which she would show up by his side, sit with his family — finally be open about their relationship. Whatever the press wanted to say was behind them, and this was the night proving so. It had been long enough, and it had taken enough prodding, but Paula had finally agreed._

_But something was nagging at her as the day had drawn nearer — a little, terrible voice — something she could not ignore._

You can’t go back from this, _it told her, on a cruel repeat._ You’re here in your life now, and if you come out with this, you can’t take this back. 

_Simon the playboy. Simon the non-committed, the bachelor. Simon, who will never settle down — who won’t marry any woman, who would never be the domestic partner she had, for so long and so hard, hoped and dreamed and longed for. Paula wouldn’t be the ball and chain telling him to settle down; she refused. Maybe that was why she was here; why she had gotten so close? Paula and Simon. Were they really so different?_

_She wanted so much, had envisioned so much, for her life. She wouldn’t get it here._

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

_It wasn’t as if they had been particularly careful about hiding what they were doing. Rumors had circulated about them for the entire season, and they had done absolutely nothing to dispel them._

_But now that the night was here; now that it was time to face the choir, it didn’t seem so easy. Having fun, going on dates; these were all little things, lovely things, beautiful things. Things she enjoyed, had fun with. But this? This was big. This was an admission. She was remembering why she hadn’t wanted to agree in the first place._

_“So . . . you aren’t coming, then.”_

_Paula swallowed at the tone of his voice. She hardly ever heard him sound like this._

_“Simon — I’m really sorry. I want to be with you on your birthday—“_

_"Apparently not enough,” came the reply. “Look, Paula, listen. If you’re too ashamed to be with me, you might as well just say so now, so we don’t have to continue dragging this out.”_

_"That is not true, and you know it,” she said._

_“Alright, fine. So you aren’t coming. I’ll just disregard the fact that I’m going to have an empty chair beside me, I suppose.”_

_Paula was quiet for a long moment, letting the dogs’ yipping escalate. It sounded a bit like a party there itself . . ._

_“I’m sorry,” she said again._

_Simon made a deep noise within the back of his throat on the other line._

_“Don’t worry about it,” he finally settled with, but said the statement in such a low, dark manner that Paula felt worrying about it was the first thing she should do._

_“I’ll call you soon, okay? I’m just going to relax. We’ll talk about this later, okay? Simon?”_

_“Yeah,” he said simply. He didn’t believe her for a second, and she knew it._

_“I love you,” she tried again. She knew what she was doing was huge. Simon was an all-or-nothing man, and this was a big fat nothing._

_“Love you too,” he said.Cold feet won. Cold feet always won with him._

_\- - - -_

_After his party ended, they had spent the whole night on the phone. They talked into the small hours of the morning, until they had come up with the conclusion that they needed to have a serious reevaluation of where they wanted the relationship to go. Paula agreed, wholeheartedly, to fly herself to London._

_They spent two days together, in and out of the bedroom but without many words otherwise._

_On the morning she was supposed to depart back for Los Angeles, they found themselves sitting together outside, on the back patio of his London estate._

_Haste had crept up on Paula, then. She felt trapped; lost in the fact that they couldn’t come to a conclusion._

_“Simon.”_

_He had stopped talking and looked at her, curious._

_“Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this.”_

_She could tell by the look on his face immediately that he was shocked. He hadn’t been expecting that conclusion at all, and, truthfully, neither had she. Paula was instinctual; she was unpredictable. And before she could convince herself otherwise that it was the right thing to do, she had reached out to touch his hand and smile, sadly._

_She had no idea why she had expected him to understand, even if he had lied and said that he did by the end. She knew he didn’t understand._

_Afterwards, they had stopped talking altogether._

_\- - - -_

_He came out with a new woman on his arm, quickly and suddenly and out of the blue. Mezghan was her name. Paula knew her somewhat, from a couple of outings at the studio — she did makeup for a lot of the crew, including him._

_Paula didn’t speak to him, figuring he probably wouldn’t want to hear from her, anyway. She focused on a new show and forgot about the X Factor._

_And then . . . the opportunity to appear on the season finale of American Idol had presented itself._

_Without a second thought, she had jumped at it, full throttle. She threw away all negativity; pretended as though she was still in love with him. It hadn’t really felt like pretend at all._

_Slowly but surely, they had reconnected after that; he kept his word to her, much to her surprise — and they began planning their next move. The X Factor USA._

_Maybe they would survive this. Only time would tell . . ._

\- - - -

“Paula,” a soft knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts, and she stared at it, not immediately responding. “Paula, open up.”

She sighed, but could already feel herself faltering. “No.”

“Come, darling. You’ve got to talk to me sometime,” he said.

“No. I’m ignoring you forever,” she replied, but her tone was soft and playful. 

“Come on, love, I’m pulling my team from negotiations . . . “

She didn’t answer.

“I’m _dialllingggg_ ,” he teased, pretending to take a few steps away from the door.

It opened, and there she stood, fighting, unsuccessfully, a smirk. 

Simon walked in, pushed past her, and she closed the door behind them. She stood for a moment, watching him as he sat down on the bed. He smoothed the covers by running his palm over them.

“Look, Paula. I’m . . . sorry . . .” he struggled; he had trouble apologizing, always. “I genuinely didn’t come here to fight with you.”

Paula laughed. “Oh, well — that’s new.”

He smirked gently. “Don’t tell my adoring public.”

She walked over and sat beside him, tongue in cheek, trying not to look at him. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her over, and bit her on the ear. She laughed, ticklish; pushed his chest.

“Stop it,” she said.

“No, you’re too irritating. I have to.”

“You are so weird.” 

She rested one palm on his chest; they settled, for a moment. Simon smirked, coy, down at her. He couldn’t help himself — he kissed her, once again.

“Paula,” he continued, looking toward the door. “I’ve been thinking . . . why don’t you just live here?”

Paula was shocked, for but a moment. She recovered quickly. “What?”

“Come now; let’s stop pretending as if you already don’t?”

It wasn’t the most unreasonable of suggestions . . . but for Simon, that wasn’t difficult. It wasn’t as if her house was selling, but she had become so used to being here that it made sense. She had even found herself growing into the sterile interior design . . . it wasn’t her style — not nearly Mediterranean enough— but it wasn’t horrible, either. With maybe a few touch-ups, here and there . . . 

Paula narrowed her eyes. “Do I get to keep the dogs here?”

Simon rolled his eyes, smiling — lifted his arm up and around, to allow her to leave. “Well . . . what do _you_ think, love?”

“I think you sure as hell better let me keep the dogs here or I’d rather stay in a cardboard box.”

“Fine, the dogs can stay. But what do you want me to do about the two Chihuahuas mucking about in my living room?”

Paula gasped at the quip and rapped his chest; he laughed. 

They were back.

She situated herself on his lap, then — kissing him lightly, tracing the outline of his jaw with her finger, poking his chin. It wasn’t a sorry, but it was as close to one as he was going to get. He held her, protectively, smiling up at her in a beaming triumphant resolve, one arm wrapped around her waist.

_Had she just agreed to share a house with him?_

Simon buried his face in her neck, kissing her most tender spots, finishing by running his lips over her scar. She lifted her head and closed her eyes as he did so, her hands ginger against his shoulder blades.

“Oh, Simon,” she asked, and he lifted his head again, looking at her, rubbing her hip with his thumb.

“Yes?”

“You said you’re going to start work tomorrow.”

“I am,” he said.

Paula stuck her lower lip out in a pout, much akin to his own. “I am SO sick of being here. I want to work.”

“You will, darling. If you don’t have the green light from the network by next week, we’ll have issues. Trust me.”

He wanted her, more than anyone, despite anything. 

Her heart was heavy.

“I should have some of my assistants move in . . .”

“For fuck’s sake, woman,” Simon sighed. “Just, come here and let me love you.” 

He moved in to kiss her at that, slowly; pushed her back against the mound of pillows behind them.

_They were moving fast,_ Paula thought, watching him as she slid out of her own robe. He was hungry for her, that was certain and always evident; he had barely taken pause before leaning forward again to meet her lips, desperately, hungrily, impatiently. He’d hardly stopped to breathe between their lips.

_But perhaps it was not so fast._ Simon and Paula themselves had known one another for what felt like a lifetime . . . 

\- - - -

As they made love for the first time in almost a year, Simon remembered every single reason why he had always been so insatiable — so unsatisfied— about her. 

There was nothing like her, ever, in this world. She was beautiful. Always so beautiful. Always so expressive and emotional and full of gasps, of life . . . of clear, transparent love. Full of long, soft vocalizations at every touch, as though this bed they shared was beyond anything, as if he were the only other person with her in the world. 

It wasn’t exactly the way it used to be. It was cautious. It was sorry.

Finally they collapsed in a heap of exhaustion, and lay beside each other. He ran his fingers over her arm, slowly; she lay facing him, her eyes open and looking into his. 

“You enjoyed that,” he said at last. Paula rolled her eyes.

“Don’t even pretend like you didn’t.”

“I’m not,” he murmured.

For a long moment, they said nothing — laid beside each other. 

Then, Paula asked her simple question.

“What about . . . Mezghan?”

He closed his eyes, let out a long sigh, and then opened them once again, staring deeply into her deep expectant pools of brown. He’d missed them.

“I told you. She doesn’t matter when it comes to this.”

She believed it. 


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: some sexual content in this chapter.

But when Paula awoke, she didn’t feel lucky in love. 

She sat up in bed and looked at Simon; his hand had been resting on her leg; it fell, limply, as she moved away — staying reaching for her.

She left the room wordlessly and went into the bathroom, turning on the lights. The room exploded in luminous brilliance; around twenty lights aligned a wall of mirrors. The house was quiet.

She eyed the enormous bath and contemplated soaking in it, but decided on a shower instead—it would be quicker, and she really just wanted to get out of the house. 

She turned on the hot water, a smidge cold, and then dropped her towel, stepping into the mist. It felt soothing against her skin — cleansing. As she washed, she contemplated everything.

_Things weren’t going to go back the way they were. Not this easily._

She stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in a white towel, and made her way to the second guest bedroom, the one in which she had been using for most nights at this house. The room still had a bit of an empty, desolate feel to it—this was a given for any new place Paula found herself trying to live in, especially if it belonged to Simon . . . but she could already imagine herself repainting the wall and calling it, at least close to, a proper bedroom. She dressed in one of her casual outfits, complete with a stylish jacket, made her way to the vanity, tousled her hair a bit, and then left the room untouched. 

She wanted to go dancing today. She knew a good studio out in Beverley Hills. She’d grab something to eat, call her team, and head out. 

On her way to the kitchen she passed the housekeeper, who had been just arriving — she smiled at her.

“Morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” Paula replied, a bit groggily.

“Would you like some coffee?” She asked. “I’m sure you’re tired of the tea we always drink around here.”

“Oh, um — sure. Thank you.”

As she made her way into the kitchen, she heard her cell phone ringing from the bedroom they had been sleeping in. Ignoring it, she made small talk with the housekeeper instead, sitting on a bar stool, casually scratching one of her little dogs, who had risen at the sound of Paula’s voice, behind the ears.

\- - - -

Simon awoke around nine. He heard Paula chatting loudly on the phone below. She must be using an office phone, because Simon could see her cell in the corner of the room — 4 missed calls to boot. Before getting out of bed, he strained to listen, but could only hear murmurs of her voice through the wall. 

He rose, dressed, took a few long moments to part his hair in the mirror. Then he made his way down.

Paula was still on the phone in the kitchen, leaning on the island. She looked disdainful and troubled.

“No, Jeff, I haven’t. I just need the number.”

Simon approached her and gently brushed his fingers against her elbow. She glanced up at him, made eye contact for a moment, and then turned away without any acknowledgment. 

“Yeah. Okay. Take care of it. Thanks. Bye.”

She hung up, stood silently for a moment, and then turned around; looked at Simon. He thought she was about to address him, but instead she opened her mouth, closed it, and walked away, hanging the phone up. 

Simon turned, watching her, with a frown.

“Well, good morning to you then.”

Paula mumbled something he couldn’t hear, straightening a cushion on the already perfect couch. “I’m uh— going out.”

“So am I. I’ve got a shit load to do.”

“Well, guess I’ll see you, then.” She was still refusing to look at him.

_What had changed between now and the night before?_

“I thought I’d come and say goodbye to you first. Christ. I can take a hint, though.”

Paula said nothing; simply met his eyes, a frown upon her lips.

“Still talking to that useless publicist of yours?” 

Paula rolled her eyes, disgusted — she turned away from him again, searching for her bag.

“When are you going to let him know he’s sacked?”

“I will,” she said. “Mind your own business.”

“Predictable. You’re going to patronize him. Too bloody personable.”

“Mind. Your business.” Paula leered at him, pointing a finger. “I mean it.”

With that she walked, quite briskly, into the kitchen, and stacked two empty mugs into the dishwasher. She felt him move behind up her; instantly she felt a hot, flushing heat. He reached around, gently, his arm slithering across her mid-section.

“Last night was nice.”

The tone of his voice was deep and soothing; she almost faltered. She threw her arms up instead. In the motion, one of the mugs fell, and shattered against the floor.

There was an awkward silence. Simon’s housekeeper was on the scene immediately. Paula muttered an apology to her and left the room, quickly, leaving Simon standing alone. 

“Excuse me, love, I’m sorry,” he said as he pushed past his housekeeper, who was attending to the mess and had rolled her eyes to herself. _Two days with them had already been quite enough as far as she was concerned._

_\- - - -_

“Paula,” he finally called, approaching her in the guest room they had slept in the previous night.“What’s gotten into you this morning? If you’ve got a problem with me, grow up and let me know what I’ve done. Don’t be patronizing.”

She gave him a dangerous glare.

“It’s nothing, okay? Just leave me alone, Simon. Is that so hard to understand?”

“Yes,” he said, honestly, frowning. “I thought we were getting on just fine?”

To his amazement, she laughed. But this time, any fun was devoid from it; it was one of disdain, of disgust.

“You think that everything’s just going to be fine and dandy the minute you get me in bed again, don’t you.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed; he tried to think of anything he might have upset her with, but came up with nothing. 

“Am I — missing something here? I thought you’d forgiven me for whatever I hadn’t done last night? I only offered you my house and all.”

“Stop, Simon! Just stop.” 

_Did he really feel as though nothing was wrong? That everything was fine, that they were okay? That he could really go on like this, forever, and continue to pretend that life was a series of bedroom romps, of non-commitments?_

“I’m going out,” she added, once more, rising to her feet. “I’ll see you later.”

“God, you haven’t changed a bit,” Simon muttered, on her way out of the room. Paula almost ignored it, but in raging impulse she whipped around in the doorway, facing him.

“You KNOW what? You haven’t either!”

“You’re still the same brat,” Simon shot back, his expression unchanging, his arms folded across his chest. “The same little brat that completely blows everything out of proportion and won’t tell me how to fix it.”

Paula closed her eyes, brought her hands together, palm against palm, and threw her head back, looking up, up, up. She shook her head, a long, dangerous pause before she continued. 

“Why. Do you have to, every single day, remind me that—“ 

He cut her off quickly. “Oh, remind you of what, Paula? The fact that you literally walked out on me for no reason whatsoever? Or was there something else you wanted to pin on me? You’re not the only one with the right to be upset here.”

She was the most confusing, irritating person he had ever known. She had been the one to break _his_ heart. What was _she_ so upset over? Simon let a hot breath out at the realization, noisily, through his nose. 

“You think our — you think this — is my fault?” Paula could barely speak for her disbelief; her voice was high, her sentences barely complete.

“I honestly do. Because it is.”

“You’re unbelievable, Simon. You really are.”

“It takes one to know one, darling,” he replied, nastily.

Quietly, they both wallowed for a long moment, too angry to speak.

Suddenly, Simon stepped forward, held her by the small of her back, pulled her in, and kissed her. She scrunched her nose, closed her eyes, and kissed him back— unsurely at first — and then, just as quickly, she resisted. She pushed his face away.

“Cut it o— no!” They broke apart; he glared at her — she glared back. “That’s not going to fix everything!”

Paula’s hands were balled into fists. He backed off. She broke their leer, and brushed past him, grabbing her phone and purse on the way. She was extremely tempted to look back at him, but didn’t. She honestly wasn’t interested if he was watching or not. 

She just wanted to dance.

\- - - - 

Paula’s cab pulled up in front of Milk Studios half an hour later.

“Are you alright to go by yourself now?” Her publicist had been with her — they had shared a debrief in the ride over. 

“I need my credit card first please,” Paula said, holding her palm out. Jeff raised a brow, and she smiled. “ _Nowwww_ , Jeffrey.”

“Here,” Jeff slid it into her hand after a few moments of teasing. “Behave yourself.”

“I always behave myself,” Paula said, dramatically batting her eyelids and resting her chin in her hands. Jeff shook his head, pat her on the shoulder, and then turned to leave.

“You call me if you need anything. I’ll be in meetings until four.”

“Have fun,” Paula said to his back, and then turned around to face the woman behind the desk. She felt friendly and chipper, away from Simon; being at the dance studio always helped.

“Hi Paula,” the concierge flashed her a bright smile; Paula returned it enthusiastically. “Go right in.”

“Thank you sweetheart,” Paula said, flicking her credit card down onto the desk. She half-bounded into the mirrored studio, and made it for the last half of a remixed version of a current pop charter. 

“Hey, P!” The instructor greeted, and Paula laughed, waving to everyone around her.

“Hey guys. How’s it going today?”

There was a chorus of breathy “good’s” and “how are you’s” before Paula clapped her hands together and spoke loudly.

“I’m just going to warn you right now— been a rough morning! I’ve got some tension and I wanna let it all out!”

“That’s what we’re here for,” the instructor fired back, and they began.

Paula let the music overtake her. She tucked herself in front of the room with two other regulars, and danced. She slid, she glided, she rose — she absorbed the rhythm, sliding through her timed steps and turns. She knew this routine by heart, and just let her body go.

No matter how old Paula would grow, she promised herself she would never stop dancing. She never had given up on it; not once. It was always the greatest escape she had ever known. 

The louder part of the song pulsed, and she completed a ball change, closing her eyes and mouthing the lyrics that came to her. She lifted her rear leg and spun once, and then thrust her hips forward to the beat of the music. Whenever she danced she could feel eyes on her. She was exactly where she needed to be.

\- - - -

Paula had stopped to catch her breath as the song ended. She lifted a leg against a barre, leaning forward to touch her toes, stretching.

Someone else had suddenly caught her eye. Standing just outside their dance studio in the lobby was a familiar looking face — she listened to the voice, realizing who it was.

LA Reid.

“ _Heyyy_ , I know you,” Paula greeted, leaving the studio and approaching him. As he turned to face her, his serious, somber expression fell into one of both excitement and genuine surprise. He smiled widely.

“Hey, Paula! Oh my God, it’s been too long!” He laughed and held out his arms; she hugged him.

LA and Paula went way back, and even Simon had to admit he had been impressed. He of course knew she had known many a celebrity, but thought that maybe, just maybe, for once, he had discovered this credible guy before she had. As Paula hugged him, Simon’s humorous words echoed.

_“Is there any bloody person you don’t know in this business?”_

“What’re you doing at Milk Studios?” She asked as they pulled apart, and he gave a little laugh before responding. 

“Oh, you know, this place is a great spot . . . I’m here sometimes when I’ve gotta do a quick run-in with the famous crowd, you know. Having a little meet-up without the press.”

“You can say that again,” Paula agreed. It was true; the studio was large but intimate and free. People here could often slip in and out, regardless of their fame, and not have to worry about life outside.

“So I hear you’re doing the X Factor too, hm?” 

Paula, forcing a smile, nodded. “If everything works out.”

“Oh, it will. Trust me,” LA raised both brows pointedly.“Can’t have Simon Cowell without Paula Abdul. You guys are the package deal.”

“Yeah,” Paula said, looking to the floor at his words. She wasn’t completely ready to think about Simon yet. “So — are you excited? I’m SO excited.”

“’Course,” LA said. “I’m excited to kick Cowell’s ass.”

Paula giggled at that despite herself. “It’s so funny, because he thought he was going to surprise me when he told me you were on the show. He was all ‘Paula, come here, look at this guy. He’s brilliant.’ And I was like ‘yeah, I know him. That’s LA Reid, he wrote my first single.’ His face was priceless.”

They made some small talk for a while. Paula found herself more and more anxious for the show as they did, and once or twice she had to break eye contact with LA so she could distract herself from the intense feelings of longing. She would focus on watching one of dancers instead.

“Well Paula, I’ve gotta get going. I was just stopping by. I’ll see you really soon, okay? And lots of you. It’s gonna be an amazing ride.”

Paula nodded and hugged him goodbye, kissing his cheek. 

“Stay beautiful,” he commanded, tone laced with humor, and saluted her with two fingers as he turned to walk out of the door. 

\- - - -

Upon leaving she pulled out her cell phone. She had two missed calls; the first was from Wendy, her sister, upon inspection, but it was not marked urgent. The second was from Simon.

She decided to switch her phone off, feeling sad at the name.

\- - - -

It was around six o’ clock in the evening. Simon was waiting, rather impatiently, on the white sofa. He had called Mezghan about an hour ago; she had said she was stuck in traffic, but would be there as soon as she could. He had directed her to his rental house and she had asked, with some surprise, why he was there, but he dismissed the question and said it would be explained. 

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Simon stood, quickly, in a nervous jolt — awaited the familiar sounds of Paula’s yipping dogs, but they didn’t come — both were asleep in the guest room and hadn’t woken.

He was nervous. 

“Hello dear,” he heard his housekeeper letting her in. “I’ll take your coat. Simon’s right in the living room.”

In sauntered Mezghan, quietly and nonchalantly. He realized that he was still standing and felt awkward; he moved to sit down, and picked up the glass of water resting on the coffee table.

“Hello darling,” he greeted, gesturing to the space next to him with his hand. Mezghan obliged immediately, and sat herself down.

“You got here alright, then?”

“Yeah, all good. Traffic was awful. Not sure why we couldn’t have just met at your hotel?”

“Sorry, darling,” Simon said, a bit flippantly. “Got a bit caught up here.”

They sat in silence for a bit, awkwardly and expectant.

“So,” she finally said. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Erm,” Simon picked up his glass and took a sip, watching her intently from over the top. _Christ, why hadn’t he gotten Max to do this?_ “Right. Do you remember that little deal we had in the beginning — about Paula?” 

“Yes,” Mezghan said. _I must warn you darling,_ she heard. _If Paula comes back, I’m not certain I’ll be able to resist her._ At the time, the benefits had outweighed the cons — and the likeliness. She waited for him to continue.

“I think I’m going to apply it here,” he continued.

Mezghan flipped her long, lovely hair over her shoulder before she answered. 

“So, that’s it, then?”

Simon pushed her lips together quickly before responding, but when he did, he nodded confidently. “I’m sorry darling. Listen — I — you deserve something out of this anyhow. You’re quite welcome to use the house.”

She shrugged. “It’s Paula, I guess. I get it.”

Mezghan looked around the room, almost bored; _was she hurt?_ _Was she taking it in?_ Simon began wondering why he had thought he could feel the same way about this woman that he could about Paula. There was no light in her eyes when it came to them . . . 

\- - - -

Outside of the house, Paula’s cab had just pulled up. She happily thanked the driver and began to dial Jeff. This was it. It felt easier than she imagined it earlier.

The phone rang an unusual amount of times as she walked up the pavement, unlocked the gate and punched in the security code, and made her way inside.

She stopped, frozen, in the doorway. Inside sat a wide-legged Simon, sipping a glass of water, with Mezghan.

Simon noticed Paula, and fell silent. Mezghan looked, too; she smiled, unsurely. Paula listened, blankly, to Jeff’s voicemail, before cutting the line short. 

She recovered, lowered the phone, nodded to Mezghan in greeting, and brushed past them.

“What are you still doing here?” Paula asked Simon dismissively, but she wouldn’t look at him. She didn’t let him reply, though — she wasn’t really looking for a reply. She exited the room before he could. 

Simon immediately rose to follow. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said to Mezghan.

“Paula,” he called out, desperately. “Paula.”

He opened the door to their previously shared bedroom, where he found her. Her glare, sharp as a glistening barracuda, met him immediately.

“Typical, Simon — typical!” Simon held up both of his hands, attempting to shush her, which only made her angrier. “NO! YOU explain this to me!” She pointed her phone at him.

“Paula, I was only getting rid of he—“

“You know what, Simon!? You’re unbelievable! After that whole shtick you gave me!”

She was letting it all out again; it was about too get ugly, quickly. Simon tried harder to calm her. Truly, she didn’t understand.

“Paula, stop, this has nothing to do with . . . we weren’t—“

“I can’t believe you. The minute we fight you bring her back in. I can’t believe you,” she kept repeating it, shaking her head, savagely. “I can’t believe you. I just can’t.”

Simon stopped talking, sighed, and brought his hand up to cover his face. He was exhausted. 

He knew how this had looked, and there was no rationalizing with an angry Paula. 

He peeked through his fingers, and saw her pacing near the door.

“I hate you,” she said, and then repeated it, over and over again, her eyes glued to the floor as she paced up and down. “I hate you so much, I don’t even understand why we . . . I hate that we—“

“Christ, Paula!” Simon cut in loudly, throwing his hand up. “You are so unreasonable, if you would just let me speak! I can’t stand you either, but you’re clearly wrong here, for _fuck’s_ sake!”

Paula met his eyes, stopped pacing, and was about to respond when her phone rang. 

She picked it up in a frenzy. “Hello!”

“Paula, you called?” It was Jeff. 

“Yes, I just wanted to say, uh, I want you to handle everything, okay?”

Before he could reply with a confused okay, she hung up. 

Simon watched, almost elated in the frustration. She refused to look back for a moment. But when she finally did look him in the eye, he hesitated no longer. He stepped forward and pressed his lips, hard, against hers.

This time, Paula didn’t push him away. She kissed him back. She bit his bottom lip, pulled it toward her. She moaned. She grabbed the back of his neck, dug her nails into his arm.

“You are—so—immature,” he managed, breathily, kissing her again and again. He grabbed a handful of her dress and pushed it up her hip. 

They moved violently with each other, a partnered cyclone entwined so deeply in this —kissing each other wildly — he picked her up, spun her around, pushed her onto the bed. But she kept herself on top this time — wrapped her legs around his waist. 

“Say it,” Simon commanded as they fell into a more irregular, wild rhythm, his voice thick and husky, her eyes squeezed shut in the intensity, in the release.

“N . . . ooooo,” Paula’s refusal morphed into a loud gasp. She dug her nails into his shoulder blades as she yelped, and then, all at once, it was done.

\- - - -

Neither one of them spoke. They laid in silence, chests heaving, exhaling, air upon the fire.

He rose, and left, without a word.

Paula lifted her head and stared at the door; her dogs had finally awoken in the mess, and were yipping at him as he exited the house. After the front door slammed, she listened for any indication that Mezghan had stayed through the fight. But the house was quiet, save for her pups. She was alone.

\- - - -

The next day, Paula received a call from one of Simon’s team. She arrived at the production office, professionally dressed.She grinned brightly as she was informed that her negotiations were going well, and that she was just about in the clear for signing contract. She jumped up, thanked everyone, giving them each a hug. She allowed her lawyer to finish up, and dismissed herself. 

Simon never showed up.


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on an interview in which Simon said he'd told everyone he wouldn't show up to the X Factor auditions without Paula, so they may as well cancel if they weren't going to sign her. True story or played up for the drama of it all, it makes for a very good, very cute chapter anyway.

Paula didn’t see Simon again. She decided it was probably for the best. 

One week, during March, she visited Wendy, longing for family interaction. Despite everything, she felt happy. She found she had built a certain immunity up against Simon over the years; it was almost second nature to ignore anything about him. 

But as she sat in her sister’s living room and stared, blankly, at a TV playing repeats of the X Files, she could stand the curiosity no longer. She pulled her phone out, and dialled Simon’s publicist: Max. 

“Hello?” Came the quiet, collected voice, moments later. Paula could feel Wendy’s eyes on her.

“Yes, Max, hi. It’s Paula.”

“Hello Paula,” he greeted, pleasantly.

“Hi, sweetheart. Listen, could you tell me Simon’s schedule? I need to get in touch with him sometime soon.” Paula bit her lip, wondering if Simon had told Max anything about their fight. _Most likely not. How silly._

“Sure. Simon’s currently in London on business grounds. He isn’t due back into the US until the auditions start up. Will you be able to get in touch, or would you like me to notify him?”

“Oh no, I’ll do it. That helps. Thank you.”

“Always a pleasure, Ms. Abdul. Do stay well.”

“What was that about?” Wendy asked, as Paula clicked off the line.

“Oh, just, something about Simon.”

“Something _liikkkeeee_ . . . needing his entire schedule?”

“Is there a problem? We are working together, you know,” a strange, nervous laugh; Paula was a terrible liar.

“Yeah, and living together.”

“We’re not _living_ together. It’s not like that. We’re just kind of using the same house.”

“Mhm,” Wendy nodded, unconvinced, but knew when to drop it. It was her sister’s business.

Paula sighed.

“Oh, who am I kidding. Wendy — I need your help.”

She looked at her older sister; her beautiful older sister — the one she had idolized since she could speak. Her older sister, who knew all the cool kids from school, her older sister, whom she would have traded in anything at any given night to hang out with. Paula needed that older sister again; she knew she could let her guard down.

“What?” Wendy asked in response, uncomfortable by Paula’s sudden shift — visibly concerned. “Are you having a problem with him?”

“Well . . . kind of. He won’t talk to me.” Paula’s voice cracked a bit on the end of the sentence, surprising even herself. She swallowed, pushed it back; cleared her throat.

Wendy’s eyes widened in further concern. “Why not? Did you have a fight?”

“I guess. I don’t know!”

Wendy turned the television off. She studied Paula intensely, one hand resting on her chin. “Well. Tell me about it, then.”

Paula said nothing — she looked down. Wendy suddenly careened forward in a seriousness that startled even her. “He didn’t hit you or anything?!”

“No no, of course not! _Simon?_ Wendy!” Paula couldn’t help herself; she laughed at that.

“Okay. Good. I know, you just, you seemed pretty upset.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Paula started again. “Yeah. We had a fight, and then he left the house and I haven’t seen him since.” 

“When was this?”

“Uh, maybe a . . . month. Maybe more? I don’t know. A while ago.”

Wendy rolled her eyes.

“Surprise surprise, he’s being juvenile. What was it about this time?” 

“That’s the thing,” Paula said, laughing through her exhaustion. “I don’t even know!”

“You two are endless,” Wendy shook her head, but didn’t offer anything more. She was disturbingly unperturbed by all of this, and Paula wondered, suddenly, just how many times it had been? That Wendy had been forced to endure rants about Simon. She remembered it being quite a lot during her first few years of Idol . . . but now?

“Come on,” Wendy suddenly said, squeezing Paula’s hand, and rising. “I’ve got to check on the dinner. Tell me more in there.”

Paula followed Wendy into the kitchen. She sat herself down at the lovely, modest little table, and her sister tended to the oven.

“So you had a fight, Simon’s not talking. I’m with you so far. What do you need my help for? This has happened before. He always comes back.”

“Yeah but,” Paula said, biting her lip. “It’s different.” 

“Different how?” Wendy asked, transferring several food items onto a plate. “You mean because of the show? Are you scared he won’t let you back on?”

“No . . . I . . . no.” Simon had already proven he was true to his word. “In fact, I signed last week, I’m good.”

“Okay, good.”

“I just . . . I miss him,” Paula admitted, the ache of her words hollow, and strange. It had been weeks, and the ignoring thing was getting harder and harder to do. Besides, how would it be if they started auditions in this state? At this rate, it looked probable. 

Her pride, his pride. A show. What to do, what to do? 

Wendy was quiet for a moment. 

“Do you love him?” Her sister’s question was soft, but genuine.

“Come on Wendy,” Paula said, laughing nervously again.

“Well, do you?” Wendy already knew the answer. Perhaps Paula had more trouble with it.

“Yes,” came Paula’s rushed reply, hastily, her voice slightly higher than normal. The statement had practically rushed from her lips like a bird, carrying a scattered life of its own. 

There was silence. Wendy, shrugged, nodded, and went back cooking.

“I don’t want to love him.”

“I know.”

“I wish we . . .I wish things had been different. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t broken up with him.” Paula suddenly felt quite small, and like she had to explain herself.“I know how stupid that is.”

“It’s not stupid, P, though I can’t say it’s surprising.” 

Wendy had given up on trying to understand her sister’s relationship with Simon years ago. She hardly knew, ever, exactly what the nuances were, what their current status was, if they were doing anything more than kissing onscreen. Truth be told, she suspected, neither did Paula. 

Despite disliking Simon at first, Wendy had to admit — she had never quite seen anyone affect her sister in quite the same way. To her it was obvious — Simon was the love of her life. And even Wendy couldn’t hate him, for as much as she wanted to, he was disgustingly, charmingly . . . sweet. He was kind. He was strangely soft. Paula had a weakness for him, a pocket in her heart for him, and she could see why. He remained, at the end of the day, a part of her. He was her friend.

Perhaps her soulmate, tragically so. If only the idiot would do something about it.

“He’s never been mad for this long before,” Paula admitted, more to herself, now.

“Where is he, London?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you . . . um. Have you been sleeping together, or?” Wendy didn’t like thinking about any man in her little sister’s bed, Simon Cowell or not, but she had to ask.

“Uhh,” Paula looked down, blushing. It wasn’t something she wanted to talk about.

“Okay, next question,” Wendy said, her reaction confirmation enough. “He’s still engaged, then.”

“No,” Paula said rather quickly. “Do you think I should call him?” 

Wendy shook her head, walked over to the table, and pat Paula’s shoulder.

“Well dearie, look. I think that, if you love him and all that other junk, you should most definitely call him, and ask him what’s up his behind this time.”

That sounded just like something her mother would have said. Paula smiled. “I don’t even think _he_ knows. He’s just pissed at me to be pissed at me, ‘cause it’s what we do.”

“Ever think it’s because you broke up with him? Maybe he’s pissed about that? Maybe he loves you, still.”

Paula nodded tentatively. “Yeah, he does.”

“Why did you break up with him, anyway?” Wendy asked. Paula had never told her sister why; just that they had. It had been a quick phone conversation the evening of. She had called her up, told her the news . . . Wendy had asked if she was okay, and Paula had that said yes, she was, in a convincing but quiet tone that Wendy knew not to trust, but back away from.

Paula sighed, closed her eyes, and then re-opened them. “It’s complicated.”

Wendy rolled her eyes. “Seriously P, I can’t help if you don’t elaborate.”

“It’ll take too long to explain.”

“I’ve got all day, kid. Besides, you’re a chatterbox, even for an Abdul.”

“Okay, fine. Fine! We broke up . . . because of . . . ” _Did Paula really want to get into this? Her aspirations, her regrets . . . her dreams, her desires? The fact that Simon would never be a family man, the fact that Simon was everything she’d never hoped for, the fact that she was certain Simon would never be the stable, picture perfect partner she had always envisioned — always fought so hard for? All of this, crushed, in one single man — and her love for him — or so she suspected. Did she really want to tell Wendy? No._ “the press.”

Wendy eyed her, clearly dubious. “What? The _press_.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You wouldn’t get it,” Paula sighed. “It’s just. It’s not worth it, Wen. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Wendy shrugged and walked to the doorway, about to exit the kitchen. But before doing so, she turned around and addressed Paula one last time.

“Paula, honey, look. I might not know exactly what it’s like to be famous, but I know enough. And you want to know what I think? I think that you and Simon make all of this ridiculously complicated when it doesn’t need to be.”

Paula pulled her lips taut, she considered this. 

Wendy squeezed her shoulder again. “Life is short. You either love him or you move on. And I think you love him.”

She exited, and Paula was left alone, smiling sadly at her sister’s words.

\- - - -

Paula didn’t call Simon. She spent most of the next few weeks with her staff, now withering away. Ever since she had admitted that it was time to switch publicists, she found herself losing faith in her own. He stayed around to give half-hearted advice on what to say and do for a couple of interviews, most of which Paula didn’t take.

She didn’t find it so hard, using the rental house, simply because she divided her time between it and a hotel when she was even home at all. She had a lot of free time again, now that she wasn’t in and out of negotiations. She spent most of it at the dance studio or with friends, flying around the world to sightsee.

Cheryl’s name came and went. Articles released. Paula paid them close attention. She was surprised, but neutral. She didn’t call him.

As audition taping approached, she began to panic. She couldn’t remember the last time they had gone without talking for so long. A week before the show was set to start things were as hectic as ever. 

_“Let him come to you,”_ Paula’s mother had told her. _“He’s the one who started it. If things are bad at first, tough luck for him. He shouldn’t have been a baby about it.”_

Her mother wasn’t the most sensitive person around, but she had presented worse solutions to lesser things.

_“Do what your heart’s telling you to do, honey,”_ had been her father’s advice. Well-intentioned, but not helpful. 

“I don’t know what my heart’s telling me, dad.”

He had laughed and given her a hug. _“Whatever you do, just know you’ve got your old man by your side!”_

“Always,” Paula had agreed, smiling.

_“Call him!”_ Wendy had insisted once again, impatiently. She seemed more amused than anything, as if calling Simon was the biggest no-brainer of the century. _“Auditions are a week away, you nut! You want him to throw you into the pits of hell on your first day of shooting?”_

And so, with a ball of messy advice and a heavy, confused heart, Paula continued to ignore Simon. She wondered how he felt on the other side of the world, and if he was still as mad as before. 

She wondered if he missed her. 

She even wondered, just a little, if he was regretting his decision to have her on the show.

But as long as things went unsaid between them, all she could do was wonder.

\- - - -

Three days before auditions, Paula picked up her phone and dialled him. But she only let it ring twice before hanging up. She sat for a few moments, debating on calling him back, but did not. She hoped he would see her name on the ID and call _her_ back, but the day came and went, and she heard nothing.

\- - - - 

On the morning before auditions, just as Paula had finally convinced herself that winging it when she saw him again would work well enough (it had been done before), she received a call, marked urgent, from her lawyer.

“Yes?” Paula answered, holding the phone close to her ear.

“Paula,” his voice sounded exasperated; her heart fluttered a bit. “I’m sorry. There’s been a problem.”

“What do you mean, a problem?” 

“You’d better get down here.”

\- - - -

Two hours later Paula was standing in the corner of the production studio, watching her publicist, her lawyer, and a few others from Simon’s company arguing with the network head. Apparently, a loophole had been found in Paula’s contract, and budget was, apparently, too tight to buy her out. One day before auditions and here they were. This wasn’t even business anymore. It now was, unmistakably and undeniably, personal.

The board room door suddenly opened, and a man in a gray suit entered with purpose.

It was Simon.

Paula’s mouth opened, about to say something, anything — but he walked past her without so much as a glance. Everything went silent for a moment.

“Alright,” he said at last, his voice even, and calm, but ready. “You’d better have a good reason for all of this.”

\- - - - 

Paula focused on Simon as they yelled at each other, standing by the door. He was standing, leaning forward onto the desk with his palms, looking down, his eyes closed in exhaustion. Everyone else had their eyes locked on him, too, and looked weary, but not nearly as distressed as he. Paula had seen him look this intense about little else, ever, in his life.

“Look. We all know that Paula is not going anywhere,” Simon pressed, firmly. “We all know that she never has been going anywhere. I am _genuinely_ not seeing what’s so difficult to comprehend here.”

“Paula’s participation nearly fell through mid—“

“Paula’s participation,” Simon cut in, hitting his hand gently against the table, “was never debated, and never will be. I have always said we preferred to do this together.”

“We can’t do it, Simon. I’m sorry.”

Simon said nothing at first; he simply stared at the producer opposite him.

“Alright. Fine,” Simon said finally, his arms slowly falling from the table to his sides. This was a fight to the death, Paula realized, and she could hardly believe it. His hands were tied. She wasn’t going to be on tomorrow.

“But you may as well cancel auditions tomorrow.” 

The room was heavy, and silent, with shock. Simon looked up; he did not falter. 

“If it’s more time you need, fine. Buy us more time—get a guest to fill in my spot, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Because I’m not turning up without her. Go ahead and cancel. I don’t care.”

At these words, Paula couldn’t help it — she smiled.She took a few steps forward, placing herself beside him. She rested her head against his arm. He looked at her, looked away, and said nothing, but didn’t shrug her off.

Paula knew that in that moment, it had been a done deal. They’d never start the show without Simon Cowell. Ratings would plummet; they couldn’t afford the risk. More money lost in buying Paula out than losing their show. It was done.

\- - - - 

Everyone was packing up, begrudgingly.The room cleared out — they had to get to work before tomorrow. 

Paula’s gaze fell upon Simon, her Simon, standing in the corner of the now empty room, a small tired but triumphant smile, talking to his assistant. He looked the same. No time had passed. She stepped forward and placed herself beside him, quietly, waiting for him to finish his conversation.

“I’ll see you around, yes?” He was saying — it seemed they were finishing. And with that, he turned to Paula.

“Simon,” she started, before he said anything. “Can we . . . um, talk?”

Simon nodded, slowly. “Come,” he said, simply, and motioned toward the doorway, holding it for her. They made their way outside. Simon had his assistant arrange for a car service for the both of them. 

For a while they rode in silence. 

“Where are we going?” Paula asked, eventually.

“Home,” Simon replied. “We’ll talk there.”


	10. Ten

When they got back to the house, they didn’t talk right away. Not even soon after they arrived — in fact, almost not at all. Paula tried her best to remain composed, vigilant, professional. She had waited until they stepped inside, until after he had placed his large black coat on the lonely rack in the walk in closet . . . after he had removed his shoes. She stood, small and expectant, against the doorway, quiet and poised, a ballerina in waiting. 

Wondering what she could possibly say; realizing that she had no idea, and probably never would. Was that always the way to solve a problem that might always be there, to speak, to talk? Could words ever aid — fall into a neat blueprint upon what they were? 

“Are you still mad?” She decided on, at last, through a smile, knowing the answer before the teasing question had left her lips.

“Are you still irritating as all hell?” 

“I haven’t changed,” Paula replied pointedly, her chest out, open, and stubborn, chin high in playful challenge.

“God knows we’d all hate if you did.” 

And they had dropped everything at that. He pulled her into himself, once more — they were kissing, again and again and again. She had ached for this attention, he for this warmth, this frenzied, expressive warmth of hers. For this connection. They were back, once again, magnetic and inevitable. 

His hands held her, securely, in his lap, hovering just over each one of her hips. She moved, in a graceful, erotic ebb and flow, again and again, kissing him softly, protectively. She held him. She didn’t understand, but she might readily give up her limbs, if only for a moment, before she lost him forever. And somehow, that made her understand.

He ended up on his back, she above, as she kissed the side of his mouth, as she sighed, as she slept in his soul. It was silent intimacy this time. He didn’t understand, but he knew how to love her. He had never stopped knowing how to love her. 

When he finally spoke, it was gentle, and his voice was deep and soft.

“I can’t stay here all night,” he admitted, into the dip of her neck.

But Paula was much less articulate with her words. No language could ever convey the moving trains of her mind, and though she may try, the body always won. A lost, irritating art to him, but an art all the same, and one of the things that made her so beautiful, so irresistible.

“We still have—to—talk,” she’d groaned at last, breathy voice suppressed in the dark, sliding her thigh, closing her eyes at the wave of stinging pleasure beneath. She bit her bottom lip, lifted her neck, and released a long breath; he watched, cupping her back in his hand, pressing her closer, never wanting her to leave again.

“We’d better do it then, Paula. We haven’t got much time left.”

“We have time,” she kissed him again, and smiled, big, bright and white, against his lips. 

_They_ had won what they had fought for; they were victorious. They had both won, for now. 

\- - - -

Paula was grinning widely, giggling as she held his face, teasing him. Somehow they had made it to the bed. The night was winding down for them, he could tell, but Paula was alive. 

Simon ran his hands up and down her sides, feeling every inch of her body, smiling lazily at this revelation.

“You,” he purred through his grin, “are impossible.”

“You missed me,” she cooed back, confident.

Simon didn’t deny this. Instead, he jerked her forward, suddenly, playfully, so that she would lie against him. She gasped, settled, and then nuzzled herself beneath his chin. He held her to him, tracing lazy circles on her hip with his thumb. He was too exhausted to go again, but not thoughtless enough to sleep.

It was finally Paula who spoke again.

“You still smoke, don’t you?” The scent on his breath, on his chest, was unmistakable. “You smell.”

“I had to have something to do with my mouth while you were gone.”

Paula rolled her eyes in the dark, the projection always flippant and predictable.

“I’ve got to go, Paula,” he said, more seriously this time. “I’ll be a wreck tomorrow. We both will. What will they say? They’ll need to up the ratings to TV-14 for undead content. We’ll be kicked off the network.”

“We haven’t talked yet.”

“We don’t need to talk.”

“Well . . . we do though! You didn’t answer me earlier.”

“About what?” He asked through a tired sigh, though he knew she was right. 

“About . . . if you were still mad.”

Simon was quiet before answering.

“—stupidly,” Paula finished, throwing in for stubborn, good measure. Simon rolled his eyes, but ignored her last little jab.

“No, Paula. I’m not. I was.”

He was finally being serious, and she gave him a moment to continue, but he didn’t.

“Well?” She tried again.

“Well _what?_ ”

“Are you going to tell me why you were a really huge you-know-what, and left me in the dark for two months?”

“Everything is about you, isn’t it?”

She sat up then; moved away from him. He frowned at her backside, but he did not speak. “I deserve to know,” she said at last, to the wall.

“Because you pissed me off, that’s why.”

“Look, Simon, I get it! We’re messed up. But we have to be professionals about this now.”

“Well, _clearly_ I’ve proven to you, especially today, that no matter what I’m going through with you I’m entirely incompetent.” 

“Stopppp!” Paula yelped, almost, and brought her hands to her temples. “Stop, Simon! I don’t want to fight anymore.” 

She wanted to go back to a few months ago, when they were getting on famously and admirably; when they were best friends, when they fought only out of playful jest. But perhaps the bedroom was always their demise. Perhaps that was why it had taken eight seasons for this to culminate at all, despite their hunger.

_Why couldn’t he just be what she had envisioned?_

Simon stared at her outline in the dark for a moment, but quickly he softened; let his shoulders fall. She was right. 

“I don’t want to start anything up again until you tell me why,” he suddenly decided. This was absolute truth. He sat up, taller, and looked her in the eye. Nothing had ever hurt quite like this.

“Huh?” Paula asked, confused.

“Why you fucked me over in the first place.”

“I did nothing wrong, Simon!”

“Fine fine, whatever. Bad wording.” He threw his arms up, surrendering. “But tell me why on _Earth_ you left me, back in London.”

Paula stopped, Simon stopped. He waited. He frowned. He looked like a puppy, caught in the rain. Paula couldn’t bear to see it — her eyes darted away from him. 

“Does it matter?” Paula shifted, unable to look at him; he was so pitiful, so sad — she felt guilty. “We’re okay now.”

“It does matter."

“Well, what do you want me to say?” 

“I want you to tell me why you broke up with me. Genuinely. Because I don’t understand, and you’ve never given me a reason.” He looked at her, seriously, took pause. “Paula, really.”

“Simon . . .” Paula sighed. Putting everything into words — not a strong suit. Instead, she leaned forward, and kissed him on the shoulder. He stopped her with one hand.

“No, Paula. You know what, I’m done until you explain that to me. Tell me why. Or I’m going. Right now.”

Paula stared at him for a few moments, stunned. She waited for a joke, a funny comment. Anything. But Simon wasn’t joking. He stared at her, he waited for her. She swallowed.

_Was she really that capable of hurting him?_

_Keep him, or let him move on._

Paula had to make a choice.

“I don’t know why I broke up with you.”

“You don’t know?” He asked from the back of his throat. “Well then how can I expect you won’t fuck me over again if we start something up? Shall I just keep on with this? Let you play your exhausting little game with me?”

“I’m not playing a game with you!”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Simon, I was afraid! Okay?”

“What do you mean?” He was frowning deeply, now, but he was getting somewhere. “Tell me the truth.”

“I was afraid because — because you’re— you and you’re also… you're real." Paula swallowed. "To me.”

He stopped for a moment, listened.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” Paula admitted, before she could stop herself. “I don’t know what I — it’s just . . . it was all too much. I mean, we had just been . . . we were just joking around before! Having fun. And then . . . Kara, and you, and it was you . . . with your birthday, and suddenly, we were dating, and . . . and the party, and the press, and the — we’d never done anything like that before. You were — it was real. You were real. You were more than just my friend. I was scared.”

Simon swallowed, and then spoke.

“So, you didn’t want to go public with me. The most logical solution was to break us up, obviously.” 

“Simon, stop it. Stop it now.”

“You didn’t have to break us up over it. So we had a disagreement. We could’ve just talked about it. Idiotic. Completely stupid.”

“We want different things in life, Simon.” Paula hit it, on its tall, dark, handsome head, and it hurt. Saying it felt real, saying it felt like death. She swallowed the lump in her throat; she felt like paper.

Simon looked down, traced his pointer finger in a circle quickly on the mattress, blinked, swallowed once more, and then looked up at her.

“How do you know?” He asked, almost shyly.

“I just do.” Paula said, but her voice was frail. “Trust me.”

They stayed, in silence, for a long moment. _Was it really so? Did Simon and Paula really want different things? Or were they both yearning, both searching, at different speeds, torn in two, learning separately, in order to come together all at once and then not at all?_

Simon finally spoke.

“Look, we’ve both royally fucked this up.”

“Got that right,” Paula said.

Simon laughed. He couldn’t help it.

“Don’t laugh!” Paula protested, exhausted — amazed he had exhaled after all.

“You know, you’re honestly the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met, Paula. I can’t help it sometimes.”

He stared back at her in the dark, his eyes studying her own, and suddenly in that moment he was so overcome with emotion for her that he felt he might cry. He pushed himself back; reined it in. 

_Damn her. He’d never escape her. What a fate, what a cruelty._

“What are we going to do tomorrow?” She suddenly broke in.

“I suppose just show up,” Simon said, quickly overcoming the moment.

“You haven’t told the public anything?”

“Not a thing,” Simon replied. “You’ll be the center of attention, as always.” 

She giggled suddenly, and a bit naughtily. “God, I’m playing with people’s emotions.”

“You always play with people’s emotions. Most specifically mine.” Simon could resist it no longer; the space between them was unbearable. He crawled forward, whispering in her ear, snaking one hand around her middle, fingers spread across her stomach. “Behave yourself tomorrow.”

Paula rolled her eyes against him, kissing the side of his head. “I won’t.”

“Good.”

“How was London?” Decidedly changing the subject, she pulled her face from his to look at him again, reaching to run her fingers through his hair. “What else did you get done?”

“London was just fine,” he said. “I worked day in and day out. It was less exciting without you there. We met with Cheryl’s people and such, I had to pretend to care about Fuller’s griping. The usual.”

“You poor baby.”

“Dreadful,” Simon said, smiling against her hair. “Absolutely dreadful. I deserve presents.”

\- - - -

“Alright, alright,” Paula rose to her feet a little after midnight, broke their contact. She tousled her hair a bit, in the vanity, for she could see the outline of her reflection in the dark. “Get home, Simon. I’ll see you at the show.”

“I won’t see you until mid day,” he said. “We agreed on the reunion place, yeah?”

“Yes, yes, I know," Paula waved her hand at him from the mirror. "I’ll be there.”

Simon waited, watching her from the bed.

“Paula,” he said, after a few long, sleepy moments. “I’ve missed you. Truly.”

She turned around to face him, fully expecting him to be smirking, a honeyed, charming sarcasm to follow. But he stopped there — he looked serious as their eyes met. Instead her chest was warm, and it melted.

“Goodnight, Simon,” Paula said, smiling. 

“I love you, you know. Truly, I do.”

A brave admission, but one he hadn’t had to make. She knew. 

“I know,” Paula said, softly now. _And that was their tragedy._ “I love you back.”

\- - - - 

_“I’m the soulmate for the rest of his life. He said that to me, the other day. I said “‘Oh! Take that back.’” — Paula Abdul on Simon Cowell_

_“I don’t know what it is about her, but I’ve always clicked with her. I’ve never found anyone better.” — Simon Cowell on Paula Abdul_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps they were just two ships passing in the night.   
> But at the very least, we're grateful they've passed at all.


End file.
